


When the Time is Right

by hobert



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: BDSM, Boys in Chains, Multi, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3674844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobert/pseuds/hobert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie's past comes back to haunt him, and it drags Duncan in as well. Can these two survive, and find their way back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005.
> 
> Warning: Please read the following warning/advisory. This is your *only* chance. The following story (and the subsequent parts) are ADULT in nature. They will include descriptions of sexual and other acts between consenting and non-consenting adults, in all sorts of combination. Including but not limited to other items of interest and/or graphic descriptions of body parts. All 2000. If you are under the age of 18, or have an aversion to reading a story that contains sections that are *not* of the vanilla sex variety, DO NOT READ THESE POSTS. I don't care *how* much you like Not-So-Saint Dunky or the little Studlander (and I mean that in a purely non-physical way) or the other Highlander characters, these posts ARE NOT FOR YOU. Can I make this *any* clearer?  
> Disclaimer: No money changed hands. No copyright violation intended.

He awoke slowly, the drugged filled dreams releasing their hold slowly. A groan escaped from his lips, caused more by the aching in his head than the stiff position of his body on the floor. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, and even more time to struggle to his feet. It didn't help his hands were bound behind his back -- handcuffs he assumed. His body complained at each movement as he forced his booted feet under himself, finally climbing to his feet.

It was dark in the small room, only a single lightbulb overhead. Shadows were cast everywhere, filling the corners with mystery. The smell was what finally gave him a clue to his location. Vanilla. She always liked vanilla. It was time then.

His breath slipped out of his chest noisily, a sigh of regrets and lost hopes. It was too soon, he wanted to argue. He had barely begun his life. A sharp pain shot up from his wrists as they fought the unyielding metal. He should better. He did know better.

It was unnerving, waiting in the center of the cell. She would be watching. She would see that he was awake. It was only a matter of time....

The door clicked open, an ominous sound he had learned to dread. That had always meant something new was about to happen. And new usually meant more in some way. More strenuous. More humiliating. More painful. Change in this place was never 'good'. And 'better' depended on who you were.

The overpowering smell of vanilla grew stronger, as colder air circulated about the room. Long ago he had learned not to look. But she was here. It could be no other. Not with him. Honed senses felt her circle him, a hand caressing his jean-clad ass. Flinching would be a mistake. Still, her touch caused muscles to clench and release.

As soft as a lover, her hand examined him, tracing the contours of his muscles through his shirt. A quick grope brought a blush to his face, and a gasp to his lips. She only laughed and squeezed again, testing and measuring. His eyes were focused on the floor, but he could see the delicate fingers working around his groin. Without intent, he shuddered under her touch. Her laughter signaled approval.

The hand traveled up his stomach, fingernails scraping lightly across his pectoral to tease the small amount of hair his open shirt revealed. Each button was slowly opened, her examination of his newly revealed skin taking longer than he ever imagined. It was arousing him, like she had done to so many others. He had watched her work on occasion, not quite understanding the ritual. It seemed so strange. Now he knew. He knew so many things.

Her fingernails searched the exposed hair, brushing his nipples until they hardened with desire. His lips parted, breaths coming in gasps as he fought against her hand. He jerked the cuffs again, but they were as unyielding as the woman he faced.

Once inside his shirt, her hand slid along his skin, touching every part of him. Her body pressed closed as she reached around to his back, her bosom crushed against his body. She must have felt his trembling, and she would relish it. Her hand slid back to the front, and was joined by the second. Both ripped his shirt completely open, baring his body for her inspection.

He knew he must be a sight. Hard, aroused, aching for her touch and yet, a little scared and frightened. She would take all that in, and judge him accordingly. The soft cloth slid off his shoulders, falling around his waist, leaving him exposed.

"Nice." He had been judged, and found suitable.

His chest heaved with short breaths, the warmth of the room and the situation causing a light sheen of sweat to cover his skin. Her fingernails traced a light circular path over his chest and stomach, and he shuddered again. "Pleeeaseee......"

The hand stopped, perilously close to a nipple. All five of the claws drew across his pectorals, not enough to draw blood, but enough to mark him, both physically and in his mind. "You knew I would find you again." Reminding him.

"Yes...." His voice was soft and low, unsure. Her fingernail pressed under his chin, the pain forcing him to raise his head and look at her. Finally. The glint in her eye was force enough to drag the rest from his lips. "...Mistress...." The word fell off in a hiss.

"Your...companion is not having an easy time of this," she informed him, snapping him back from the erotic fog he had hovered in. "He's fighting it."

The mental picture was enough to make him shuffle on his feet. What could she be doing to him? She waited, the silence begging to be filled. "He's...he shouldn't be a part of this. I'm the one...."

The hand clenched his jaw, tight. "I warned you there would be interest. And he certainly interests me."

He had no reply, no answer for that. His head lowered when her hand fell away, his shame doubled now that his friend had been dragged into this. It had been his fault. His stupidity. And they both would suffer dearly.

Her hand rested lightly on his belt, drawing him closer to her. "My poor little Richard. It's time to pay your debts, my young friend." She walked around to his back, pulling him into a hug, her arms crossed over his bare stomach as she whispered in his ear. "I'm sure two handsome studs can work it off fairly quickly."

* * *

 

He stumbled into the room, his hands trapped behind his back. The floor was solid and it hurt as he landed, his bare skin scraping along the cement. The door shut with a bang, a perquisite in this place. Richie groaned, straightening out on the cold floor. Too much had changed, bringing too many old memories.

The small cell was sparsely furnished. A small mat in the corner was for the occasional moment of sleep. In the corner was a combination toilet/sink. Her favorite humiliation was watching how the new ones handled the combination. Here, you adapted or.... Well, the alternative was too graphic to imagine.

In one of the shadowed corners was probably a hidden camera. The thought that she was watching -- or that *others* were eyeing him made him want to cover up. She had stripped off his shirt, which now hung in tatters around his waist. But bound as he was, all he could do was pull it all the way off. He couldn't even wash his face -- just soak it in the toilet and wait for it to dry. Definitely her style.

God, he had to go to the bathroom. Her stimulation had only drawn out the need for relief, which caused a whole different ache. But his bladder was once again reminding him he hadn't done anything about the large soda he had had at lunch, so many hours ago. Hours? It could have been days. In this place, there was no time like days or dates. Only hours that stretched unimaginably long or blessedly fast.

He knew the screaming he heard in the background shouldn't bother him. *He* wasn't in that position -- yet. But Duncan was somewhere, being stubborn. Here that could get you killed. He laughed. It made being Immortal worse. You couldn't escape her by dying.

The cold, the nakedness, the despair at his situation: something caused him to tremble. He tried hard not to let the walls crumble, but here, before, the walls had been breached and decimated. His legs buckled, his body falling to his knees as the hopelessness overtook him. And he was twelve years old again....

_Mercifully, he was no longer cold. Even though the room was dark and shadowed, it was warm. Unlike the alley he had come from. Where he had been found. They led him here, telling him to wait. And so he waited._

_The woman came in, dressed...well, not like any lady he had ever seen before. She was calm and nice to him, asking him about where he was from, why he was sleeping in the alley. At first, he wanted to lie, but she somehow knew. She never touched him, never forced him, but somehow he told her everything. Running away, the uncaring foster parents. There was no way he was going back to the orphanage, so that left only the streets. He had done well his first few nights, but it was getting harder to find food, to find shelter. And it was getting colder._

_She would let him stay, give him food and shelter, new clothing. He would have to work for her, here in this place. Without knowing quite what he was getting into, he agreed. Nothing could be worse than the streets, to a twelve year old boy. Nothing he could imagine._

_He learned how limited his thinking was...._

It took a bit to work his legs through his bound arms, threading past the handcuffs so his wrists were no longer trapped behind him. He wasn't as thin or as wiry as he had been before, or as dexterous. Immortals and thieves do not have similar workout regimes.

He was hungry, he was tired. Only one of those needs he could satisfy. The light remained on, always, so that anyone could watch him, at any time. There might have been a point in his life that he had been less than thrilled at the way his body looked. Since becoming Immortal, he hadn't cared, as long as it didn't fail him. So he lay down on the mat, not caring who was watching. Right now, it would be better to care only about himself.

There was nothing he could do for Duncan. Nothing to trade with her for leniency with his friend. Nothing to offer she didn't already possess in exchange for the Highlander's release. Only a moment to whisper a prayer at whatever god might protect the Scot to give him the strength he would need. There was no chance of MacLeod bowing to her whims, and no way she would not receive the obedience she desired. One or the other would break, and she held all the cards.

His thoughts were of Duncan as he drifted off to an uneasy sleep. Of Duncan and himself, and how he could ever be so stupid.

* * *

 

She must have come in while he was asleep. His wakeup call was a kick to the side, a blinding pain that woke him instantly. It took a moment to realize he had company, but his sleep-shrouded brain knew what he must do without conscious thought. Assume the position.

He twisted to his knees, spreading them as wide as his jeans allowed. She would always expect full access to his body. Head down, staring at his cuffed hands. He was unable to cross them behind his back like she wanted. He tried to calm their movement, and straightened his back. She hated sloppy posture.

"You remember incorrectly," she admonished him, adding a mediocre kick to his hands as they covered his crotch. Enough to cause pain in his wrists and lightly crush his groin. A reminder, only.

It was almost twice as hard to reverse the moves, straining to get his powerful legs between his arms, but finally he was positioned like she wanted. In half the time. Knees and wrists and head and back. Drawing in air noisily at the exertion. And he could feel the first wetness of perspiration at his armpits and stomach. That should help -- she always enjoyed a sweaty body.

"Better," she told him, running her hand through his short hair. "I liked it longer." Therefore it will not be cut. She raised her boot, running the point up and down the bulge in his jeans. "You've grown up. Not my little Richie anymore, are you?"

"No, Mistress," he whispered, ashamed at how he let her control him.

"Up," she commanded, a jerk in his hair helping him rise to his feet. "Decided you hated shirts?" she asked running her hands over his bare skin, teasing him. Taunting him. Giving him the opportunity to appease her or anger her. Either she would enjoy. Only one would keep him from the pain.

"You...it...I thought it displeased you."

Her hand rested on his skin, the fingernails digging in. "You thought?"

Oh, god. "I...I wanted you to see how well my body had turned out...Mistress."

Her hand resumed it's path. He could almost feel her smile. "You like showing off for me?"

His wrists jerked against the cuffs. He was aware how it made the muscles in his chest and arms flex. Anything to satisfy her. "Yes, Mistress."

Both her hands came to rest on his pectorals, framing the muscles. He looked down, aware at how little she was wearing. Her hands squeezed, testing the firmness. "You've done well. You should be proud of your body. It is a pleasing gift to me..."

Oh, no, Richie thought. Please, no.

Her hands moved up, trailing through his chest hair until they reached his neck. They stroked the bare flesh under his chin, tickling almost. She moved around him, massaging as she went, following tendons and veins. It was almost relaxing, if the results weren't so horrible.

The cold leather against his skin almost made him jump, and only the knowledge of her punishments kept him still. It encircled his throat, wide and thick. Enough so that it was impossible to keep his head lowered. The collar was tightened, almost to the point of choking him, but before it turned deadly, it was buckled into place. A constant reminder he was no longer anything but hers.

Her hand ran through the short hair on his head, ruffling it as he looked toward the ceiling. His eyes misted, the memories meshing with the reality. She gently lifted his wrists, sliding up his back, until they were resting between his shoulder blades. High enough to make his shoulders ache. "I'm not ready to see how much of a contortionist you've become," she added as something was clipped both to the cuffs and his collar. Something that kept his wrists in place. There would be no relief for him, no tricks to ease the restraints.

She moved around to his front, stroking his body all the way, almost as if she was reacquainting herself with his form. Almost like a lover might do. "You are a special gift, Richard," she whispered as she touched him. "A fitting canvas for what I have planned for you."

His knees wanted to shake so badly, and his strained position was already starting to hurt in several places. But he was frozen, unable to move, caught like a fly in her web of horror. "Yes, Mistress," he answered, knowing that it wasn't just the bright light shining in his face that cause the tears to well up in his frightened eyes.

"Your first assignment is tomorrow," she informed him, giving his chest one last brush before leaving. She was gone before the first tear coursed down his cheek. It was too difficult to remain standing as his body shook. He fell to his knees, the sharp pain of landing on cement lost among the other agony. His body wanted to fall forward, to curl limply into a fetal ball and forget that there was anything other than his pain. But the restraints kept his torso upright, leaving him no other choice but the position she wanted. His chest heaved as his body was wracked by the sobs, each breath painful and short.

This was only the beginning.

* * *

 

It was hard to do anything in the painful position she had left him in. Even crawling on his knees over to the toilet for water was almost impossible. Getting his head inside the bowl without using his hands, or wrenching them so far up his back his arms broke, was futile. He looked down at the clear water, unable to slack his thirst.

He made it back to the mat, his knees hurting as they scraped across the floor, even with denim covering them. By the time he managed to lie down fully on his belly, he was exhausted. His first breath was strained, his second even worse. Within a minute, he found it impossible to get any air. He used his legs to flip himself over and instantly regretted it. A sharp pain exploded behind each shoulder. The collar was jerked back, so far his neck felt like it was being pulled off. And his hands started going numb.

Frightened and in agony, Richie tried to turn over again, but the triangle of his head and shoulders made too stable a base. He was trapped -- and choking! Mentally, he reviewed the small number of options he had. There was only one he could try.

About to pass out, he spread his legs apart for leverage. He crunched his abs, trying to pull his torso off the ground using his stomach muscles alone. It felt like hours, each inch pulling his hands higher and jerking his neck further back. At one point, desperate for oxygen, he found his lungs no longer worked. His legs began trembling at the strain, and his abdominalsl screamed at the abuse.

Over and over, he kept telling himself one more inch, one more inch, praying desperately for something to end his suffering. His muscles gave out, and he felt himself falling back onto the mat. He couldn't feel his hands, he couldn't breathe, his whole body was awash in pain and sweat. Unconsciousness darkened his icy blue eyes, and he knew he was dying. And he welcomed it. Anything to get away from this hell.

* * *

 

He awoke naked and unrestrained. The collar still choked him, and his neck, arms and stomach were sore, but he was alive. Not knowing anything else to do, he curled up into a ball, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them, trying to give himself a little comfort. That's how he finally fell asleep.

* * *

 

The door made a loud noise as it opened One that echoed in the small, enclosed cell. Richie looked up from the mat he was sleeping on, aware too late he was tempting fate. If she had been standing there....

But it was only a small boy, trembling in fright, holding a tray of food.

_"That's all right," the man told him, adding a smile. Richie wondered how anyone could smile here, especially one of *them*. "You can set that over there." He pointed near the mat on the floor. Richie hurried over, not caring how much soup he spilled. The only thing necessary was delivering the food and getting away._

_The man stood in front of the door when Richie turned around. It wasn't a hostile action, but it made the youngster's heart beat even faster. "What's your name, boy?" the man asked him, drying his hands on what looked like the remains of a shirt. That was the only article of clothing in the room, save what Richie himself wore._

_"Ri...Richie..."_

_"I'm Jacob," the man told him. "You're new." It was a statement, not a question._

_"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Richie pointed out. Or any one of *them*. Even though he was almost a teenager, there were still some rules he thought it would be best to obey._

_Jacob settled onto the mat, sliding the food tray closer. "You won't be punished," he replied, as if he could read the boy's thoughts. "Even though she watches us, she won't care if we keep it simple. And quick. A boy like you, scared and alone, needs someone to talk to."_

_The accuracy of Jacob's statement caused the fear to overwhelm what little guard Richie had over his emotions. "I've got to go," the boy stammered as he ran for the door, not pausing to look back at the guard who locked the cell and laughed._

"It's all right," Richie said, keeping his voice low and calm. "Come on inside a little." The young boy responded, but his eyes shifted about, scanning the empty cell. "I see you brought me some food."

Reminding the lad of his task must have centered him. He quickly walked over and handed the tray to Richie, almost dumping it in his lap. That would have been a disaster. Hot soup, no clothing for protection. It took a second to set the tray on the floor, and by the time Richie had looked back, the boy had dissappeared and the cell door closed.

"First day on the job, kid?" he asked the empty room. Richie couldn't blame him though. He knew how terrifying working here could be.

* * *

Richie panicked when the guards came barreling into his cell, powerful and sudden. Instinctively, he reacted, kicking out. But even his MacLeod-trained skills were no match for three beefy guards looking for insubordination. They wrestled him to the ground, not caring how much they hurt him. They had a job, and they would do it, with or without his cooperation.

It wasn't until they were dragging him down the hall that he calmed down enough to stop fighting them. One guard pulled on the chain connecting his manacled hands, another tugged at the leash they had attached to his collar. A third walked behind him, giving his rump a kick every time he slowed down. Wherever he going, they would make sure he arrived. If he didn't fight them, it might even be painless.

He was placid as they chained his wrists and ankles to two pillars, stretching him between the stone columns. Bright spotlights kept him well lit, all his secret places exposed in that position. They left him alone, shutting the iron door without comment.

The guards' footsteps faded into silence, leaving the young Immortal alone with his own demons. Waiting was never one of Richie's strong points, and having no choice but to hang there and do nothing was getting on his nerves. He wiggled, as much as his bondage allowed. There was a little play in the chains, enough so that his feet rested comfortably on the floor, but soon even that small amount of weight and his restlessness caused his shoulders to ache.

Pain just made the time pass even more slowly.

* * *

He might have been dozing. When he heard the key in the lock, his head snapped up. It hurt where the collar had been digging into his skin. His kept his eyes downcast, focused on the cement floor as he relaxed in the chains. It was cold here, and goosebumps dotted his pale skin. His nipples crinkled into tense little nubs and his toes tingled.

It was impossible to tell who owned the high-heeled boots as she walked in, until her fragrance, vanilla, invaded his brain. He felt himself harden as he breathed deeply. She had come, and his body was responding to her presence.

When he opened his eyes again, after drinking deeply of her smell, he noticed the other pair of boots. Black, shiny leather and big, the kind a man wore. She was not alone. Both pairs of feet moved closer, with not a sound uttered in the room. The new boots belonged to a pair of muscled thighs encased in straining black leather. The pants also bulged at a well-packed basket, a sure sign on the person's gender. As the man stepped closer, Richie noted the defined abdomen and the smooth, hairless chest. Not a weightlifter, but an active and toned man. After working at the dojo, it was easy to spot the signs.

They visually examined him in silence, both walking around him. He felt the leather of her riding crop caress his back in lazy circles. "What do you think?" she asked. Richie didn't imagine she was speaking to him.

The man stopped in front, running a hand over the Immortal's stretched chest. "Better than some of the ones you've gotten recently." A thumb brushed repeatedly over Richie's taut nipple, causing him to gasp uncontrollably. His reward was a painful pinch and jerk on the same piece of sensitive flesh. He bit his tongue to refrain from moaning, but he was transparent to the man. "Horny as a hound dog, too. What alley did you drag him from?"

"He wasn't homeless," she replied behind him, but all Richie could focus on was the man's fingers as they continued to torment his tits, badgering him into responding. Only the salty taste of blood in his mouth muted the sensations flooding into his brain. Erotic sensations, despite the sharp agony. He could see how hard he was, unable to control his body's reactions.

Richie almost cried with relief as the man exchanged places with her. It was short-lived, however. The Immortal found himself aching with need as he gazed shamelessly on her body right in front if him. Her hand was gentle and soft as it stroked a path across his pectorals. The man was behind him now, fingers sliding through his short, dirty-blond hair.

Her fingernails teased small circles over his naked abdomen, tracing the muscles that stood out because of his stretched position. "Richard is...a special case."

"Richard? Thinks himself a king, does he?" the man asked. There was a jerk on Richie's collar, choking him and pulling his head back. He blinked at the suddenness, blinded by the bright overhead lights that revealed every nuance of his body.

Her hand brushed lower, stroking the hair around his navel. His groin clenched under the caress. Her voice was soft as well, chiding the man. "No, he's fully aware of his place here. Aren't you, slave?"

There was no special emphasis on the last word, but it still caused Richie's breath to catch in his throat. He felt the light searing into his brain as he looked upward, afraid to close his eyes, but also afraid of the tears that were starting. "Yes, Mistress" was his choked response.

Hands dug into his buttocks, squeezing them like melons. The shock made him jump forward, straining against the cold, steel restraints. The hands followed, gripping harder. His rear would be sore, though it wasn't as painful as the whippings he remembered from the orphanage. "Nice ass," the man commented.

"Nice everything," she replied, as her hand finally claimed his treasure, wrapping tightly over his inflamed manhood.

His lungs pulled hard as he gasped for air. The sensations were overwhelming. Without thinking, he exhaled, the words "...oh, God..." escaping his lips. The hand on his cock stopped, her fingernails digging deep into the pulsating flesh. Pain exploded as his head was jerked back again by his hair.

"You'd do better to pray to *me*, you stupid *fuck*," the man whispered angrily in his ear. The last word was punctuated by a dry finger thrusting into his most private place, forcing itself past a protesting ring of muscle and deep into his ass.

Richie cried out at that, his mind screaming wordlessly at his body's violation. He rose to his toes, as far as his stringent bondage would allow. Metal dug into sore wrists as he pulled himself up, trying to use his chained hands to protect himself, protect his assaulted rear. Fingernails dug deeper into his cock as he struggled to pull out of her grasp, to lift off the offending finger.

He was trapped, helpless. His position gave them full access to his body. Hands unable to cover, to fight away, legs incapable of closing. They subverted his will, dominated him. The word "no" was no longer part of his vocabulary. There was no "he," only a body they could deal with as they pleased.

When what little energy he had left ran out, he relaxed fully, whimpering. The finger wiggled deeper, exploring its new home. His breaths came in ragged gasps, the pain from his ass mixing with the pleasure as her hand started slowly milking his softened penis. Tears poured down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat coating his body. For a second, he caught a glimpse of her as his head fell forward, but another deep push by the finger drove all thoughts but red, throbbing pain from his mind.

"Nice," the man commented again. Richie found he couldn't even blush anymore. "Tight," was added as an afterthought. The finger continued to explore, ferreting out the dimensions. Her hand pulled harder, and despite the price, he welcomed it.

It had been so long, almost a week since he had even jerked off. A month since real sex. That and the stimulation recently at her hands had given Richie a bad case of blue balls. Even though he felt humiliated at being finger-fucked, her hand was stroking him, teasing him. Her fragrance surrounded him, clogging his nostrils. He thrust his hips, not so much to escape the finger but to drive his cock harder into the warm hole her hand made.

She chuckled, enjoying his erotic writhing held in check by the bondage. "Stop," she commanded, and both the finger and her hand froze where they were, leaving him hanging on the brink. His mind rebelled, needing release and lost without it. He had no control left.

"Nooooo," he whined. He felt his legs trembling as he tried so hard to push into the hand. It followed with him, never moving an inch on his hard shaft. "Pleeease." In desperation, he pushed back, hoping the finger would drive deeper, anything to send him over the edge. But they denied him that as well. Whatever he had left fought against the chains. If he could just touch himself, stroke himself, brush against a nipple, feel cool lips against his skin, anything, he would find release.

Her warm breath blew softly over his chest hairs, sending his skin tingling, bringing him one tiny step closer to the abyss. "What have you left to give me, Richard? What bargain will you strike that you would uphold? Have you turned trustworthy somehow? What will you do for me this time, Richard? Will you be mine? Forget you ever had a life outside this place? Give yourself fully to me, slave? Give up yourself, forever?"

His teeth had cut into his tongue, and still that sharp pain didn't finish it, only brought him so close he knew he'd go mad in seconds. "Anything," he breathed, tasting the salty tang of his blood as it flooded his mouth.

She raked one fingernail over the sensitive flesh just under his cockhead, rather hard. Sharp agony so overwhelming it was a blast of pure pleasure filled him, and he came. He could feel his body shaking in the chains, writhing as he felt his testicles shoot their load. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, gargling on his own heated blood as his muscles contracted as much as they were able.

He must have passed out. The collar choked him, cutting off his breathing, so he lifted his head. They were standing at the door, gazing on him as he hung limply in the chains. "We could get a pretty penny for a virgin ass like that," the man said. Richie didn't care. The torment was over, for now, and he could step back and examine what had happened, what they had done to him. And how he felt about it.

"There's already a few prospective clients lined up. I thought you'd want a crack at him first, though." Even sated, her voice did things inside of him, things both shaming and wonderful.

The man laughed, sending chills down Richie's bare spine. "I'll get my chance. When does he start?"

"Two days."

They left him hanging there, alone in the silence to ponder what had happened and what was to come. He was freezing, his sweat and other juices drying on his body. Limp as a doll, unable to do anything but ache at the remembered moment of orgasm. He had promised her anything, and everything. And he found that he had meant it, this time. This time he went in with his eyes fully opened, and his soul fully claimed.


	2. Session One: School Daze

When she showed him the outfit, it took all his control not to laugh. First came a light blue, short sleeved shirt. Medium sized. The kind of shirt he might have fit into six years ago. But now he had a muscular build on his once-skinny frame. The material molded itself to the curves of his torso. Skin tight. She didn't care. She watched him force the buttons through the holes as he tried not to breathe too deeply. The shoulders pulled and the cloth dug into his armpits. Even a slight movement made the cloth scrape across sensitive nipples. But it was on, and -- Lord willing -- would stay on.

The shorts were a different matter. A slightly darker blue in color, they caused a problem as he stepped into them. He wrestled them up to his hips, wondering how they could possibly fit. He told her so.

She smartly pointed out the reinforced zipper and stitching, and proceeded to jerk the metal tab up, all the while compressing his genitals smaller. By the time she finished, and buckled the included belt, Richie estimated his well-filled basket to be the size of a golfball. Two golfballs, and a number 5 iron. A dull ache rose in his gut and he groaned slightly. She batted away his hands that unconsciously moved to open the demonic zipper.

"You should know better," she chastised him. Richie looked down further, surprised to feel shame at his action. The last item was a colorful bowtie, the already tied kind, which she tightened around his neck herself. It choked him as much as the collar previously did. She fussed over his outfit one last time, straightening and smoothing the cloth over his body. "Guards." His escort arrived, to take him away.

* * *

 

Once the door closed, he fidgeted, not daring to look around. A sharp crack startled him, jerking his head up. He stood in a room with chalkboards and maps on the walls. A large wooden desk dominated the front of the room, a globe of the earth the only decoration. Behind it stood a middle-aged woman. The ruler in her hand probably made the noise.

"Take your seat, Mr. Ryan." The ruler pointed at the only other piece of furniture in the room, a student's desk/chair. He hastily walked over, sliding into it, wincing as the shorts crushed his manhood. "You were late," she added, looking at him over her black wire-rimmed glasses. "I will not tolerate tardiness."

Richie shook his head. "Yes, ma'am."

The woman...the *teacher* walked over and handed him a book and notepad. "We'll start with math today," she informed him. "Turn to page one twenty-seven...."

Visions of his school years danced in front of his eyes, the charts and graphs in the book forgotten. Richie had hated school from the very moment he started. He already lived at the orphanage when he attended first grade. No mother to come to Parent's Day, no stories about summer vacation. The other kids looked at him and made jokes about how he had no parents. An orphan. Little Orphan Richie....

*Snap* He jumped, the crack of the ruler on the desk sounding like a gunshot. "MR. RYAN! You've ignored my question THREE TIMES! Where...is your _homework_?"

The last word sent a chill across his back. Mechanically, he started searching through the book and notepad, panicked at the thought of not having it. Where the hell....

"MR. RYAN!"

He looked up, startled. A look of glee crossed the teacher's face. There had been one or two during his schooling that had enjoyed making him sweat. Sometimes he thought the other kids stole his papers just to get him in trouble. And it looked like he was in trouble if he didn't find his homework for...for...what *was* his teacher's name? His classroom didn't look like this. Where was he...?

"No," he whispered, the reality of the moment cutting through the haze of the past. The lady didn't like that word. She stormed over to his seat, grabbing his bare arm in her claw-like grasp. Before he could stop her, she pulled him from the chair and started toward the large desk. Richie knew better than to resist too much. The guards would come and make sure he 'co-operated.'

The young Immortal bent weakly over the edge of the desk, staring ahead at the blank green chalkboard. This was a familiar position for him, a familiar punishment. By the time he had reached high school, he prided himself that he never cried out at the whippings he received. Never gave them the satisfaction...

*CRACK*

The ruler landed on his stretched thighs and sent a wave of pain from the abused skin.

*CRACK*

Another slammed into a taut buttock.

*CRACK CRACK CRACK*

Richie bent over the desk, resting on his elbows with hands clasped together as she proceeded to redden his rear. Even with the benefit of the shorts, his skin still burned. The waves of red pain coursed upward to his head, crashing on the rocks of his mind. But he made no sound, and no move to protect himself.

After fifteen licks, she stopped, taking a moment to examine the red, blotchy skin that peeked out under the tight shorts. "Return to your seat," she ordered him. Each step caused another stab of pain. He gritted his teeth all the way to his seat, still unwilling to show how much it hurt.

Sitting caused even worse pain. His breaths came in short gasps as the pain squeezed his lungs. He wanted to pass out, even prayed for it. More would come, he knew it. More work, more assignments, more questions. More punishment. All he could do was play her game, make her work hard for each punishment. Maybe he could keep it easy until her time ran out. Maybe.

Richie tried to follow along with the lesson. Tangents, cosine, degrees; all the concepts he had ignored in school swirled together. His butt still throbbed, even with his unnatural healing. She'd turn her back to write on the board, and he would shift in his seat, unable to handle the pain. Each scrape made him wince. He fought to remain silent, but failed. He hissed sharply at one painful contact, clamping down on the sound. Unfortunately, she heard him.

"Can't sit still, Mr. Ryan? Bad little boys who can't behave in class have to learn how to sit still and be quiet." As she spoke, she slowly walked closer to his desk, brandishing the ruler at him. He didn't imagine she'd go after his rear again so soon. The fear must have shown in his eyes, or on his face, because she smiled. "Hands on the desk, young man."

Confused, he did as instructed, unable to help shifting in the chair. Her intent became obvious as she removed the bottom quarter of the desk top. Underneath, two leather straps waited, attached to the desk. She fastened the restraints around his wrists, locking them in place on the wood surface, fingers splayed. Helpless targets for her vengeance.

The foot long instrument landed on his knuckles, sending agony shooting to his brain. He jerked at the bonds, desperate to protect his hands. Another snap of the ruler across his fingers, this one causing him to cry out. He wanted to beg her to stop, plead with her not to do this, but his mind faltered. How could they be doing this? White, bright light caused by the sharp pain blinded him....

_...in the gymnasium. The crowd cheered, hell, even he cheered from his normal spot at the end of the bench. They were about to make the damn playoffs, for the first time in several years._

_Richie yelled a lot from the sidelines. They made him take a sport, saying he was too athletic for PE. So instead of spending an hour a day playing dodgeball, he hung around all the tall and fast jocks._

_They wouldn't even let him be a towel boy, saving that job for the freshmen wimps who couldn't handle PE. Richie was part of the team. Each day he suited up in the tank top and shorts, ran around the gym, and waited to see who'd he be a punching bag for._

_Practice. That's what the coach wanted him for. Someone his 'boys' could practice against, someone a little more active than a football dummy. Each day he went up against the good players, and lost horribly. Each game he sat on the end of the bench, suited up in a uniform, one that even had "RYAN" on the back. But he never broke a sweat. The team treated him worse than a low-life, like he didn't even exist._

_That still didn't dampen his excitement. Even if he never got on the court, he'd still go to the playoffs at the capitol, maybe miss a few days of classes. Hell, even dorky sophomore girls might want him then -- he'd still get his letter jacket. Richie Ryan, All American Jock._

_So he shouted, and encouraged, and cheered from his spot on the bench. They led by ten, the win a sure thing this late in the game. Hey, even the coach was excited. Too excited. At the four minute mark, he shouted for Richie to take the forward guard's spot._

_Shocked, it took a moment to realize what had just happened. "Get out there before I change my mind, Ryan," the coached shouted at him. Stunned, the teen stepped out onto the court, suddenly frightened and excited and scared._

_He did well for maybe forty seconds. The other team intercepted his pass, and he watched as they scored. On his second play, he didn't stop fast enough, plowing into an opponent, resulting in a foul and two freeshots, both of which the guy made. Resolved not to fail, he yelled at his teammate for the ball, so sure he could make a shot. He didn't, and the other team scored off the rebound._

_At the two minute mark, they led only by three points. The coach dragged him off the court personally, dumping him back on the bench. Richie had the vague impression the crowd booed him. He didn't look up to check._

_The opposing team scored yet another basket. "Coach," Richie began, trying to salvage whatever he could._

_"Get your butt into the locker room, Ryan. And don't come out."_

_He heard the final buzzer and then the cheers from the lockers underneath the stands, unsure who had won or lost. All he knew was that he didn't want to be in the locker room when the coach...or the team came in. Without bothering to shower, he changed into the jeans and t-shirt he had brought along. All he had to do was get to the bus...._

_Richie ran into them as he headed out the door, the mass of jocks pushing him into the locker room again. They had lost 73-72. His fault. All his fault._

_They yelled that at him as they piled on top of him, driving him to the floor. Several of the heavier guys pinned him face down, dragging his arms out in front of him. He fought them, screamed at them, but there were too many. Too many that hated him._

_The team captain, a blond senior, stood in front of him, slowly dribbling the ball on the cement floor. "You lost it for us, Ryan. The screw-up screwed up. That's the last time, Ryan. Last time."_

_And while they held him down, and pinned his arms, the smiling blond captain dribbled the basketball on his outstretched fingers, shattering the small, thin bones as Richie screamed until his voice failed...._

...and she stopped, stepping back to watch him as he screamed, staring down at the claws he had for hands. It hurt so bad. Not even being shot, or falling ten stories compared to the horrible agony that radiated from the scarlet, swelling fingers. Only that horrible night in the gym came close.

The teacher stared at him as his screams lessened to sobs. "Oh god, oh god, oh god," over and over. He didn't know where he was, only that it hurt. He'd do anything to stop it from hurting. That's what he had promised them, but still they didn't stop, only dribbled the ball again and again and again and....

"Lunch," she called, setting several packages in front of him and retiring to her desk to watch. Richie still had trouble breathing, only choked sobs escaping his throat. Lunch. A break. Oh god, food. The only word that might make things better. Even the pain from his fingers faded at the thought of eating.

She left his hands cuffed to the desk, neutralizing the easiest way to eat. A sandwich, wrapped in the clingy plastic stuff, a small bag of chips and one of those soda boxes made up the meal. A feast in his eyes.

The bag of chips proved easiest to start with, holding it gingerly in a hand and using his teeth. His sore fingers responded slowly, and they couldn't grasp very hard, but he managed to open the bag with very little spillage. Greedily, he munched on the oily junk food, not caring about the crumbs that landed on his shirt or the floor.

Plastic wrap took a bit of patience. He had to worm his teeth between the sections after he found the ends. But the peanut butter and jelly sandwich tasted like French cuisine, even though he created a mess. Too much goop had been put between the slices of bread. Each bite, a little more oozed out, landing wherever.

Throat raw and dry, Richie tackled the juice last. Not able to get at the straw sealed on the side, he bit into the cardboard, opening up several holes. With the box firmly gripped in his teeth, he leaned his head back, gulping fast. Too quickly, the liquid disappeared, most down his throat, some across his chest and soaking into the shirt.

Richie's stomach still grumbled. But the gnawing hunger retreated a little. He looked down at his shirt and desk, covered in the remains of his feast. He attempted to use his tongue to lick up the jelly that covered his face. Without a mirror, he couldn't tell if he succeeded. Somehow he knew he didn't.

"Messy little boy, aren't we." Her voice sounded right in his ear, startling him. He jumped in the chair, his hands pulling against the leather. He realized it had been a setup. He had to make a mess, something else to be punished for.

"Please...."

The word escaped from his lips unbidden. His stomach tightened into knots, the fear of her choice of torments undermining the small amount of joy at being fed. "Please don't...." He couldn't finish the sentence, too scared to guess at what came next. Unable to bear the thought of more.

She unbuckled his hands, leading him like a small child to another door in the room. This opened to a shower area, where she instructed him to remove his clothes and clean up. Still shaking, he eased out of the tight outfit, catching himself before he sighed in relief as the restrictive garments slid off.

Richie showered under her gaze, careful of his fingers that still hadn't finished healing. He only suds up his genitals, nothing more, afraid to draw her attention to that yet untouched area. The shower felt good, the hot water sliding over the slightly pink welts on his ass. He washed his face twice, and ran stiff fingers through his hair. Only once did he look in her direction, and he quickly looked away. A hunger lingered there that frightened him. What more could she have planned?

He stood there after he turned the water off, dripping onto the tile. She handed him the shorts, sopping wet but clean. He slid into them again, wincing as he carefully zipped them closed. The soggy cloth chilled his skin, goosebumps appearing all over his fair flesh. He looked at her, ready for his shirt, but she handed him the bowtie next.

It sat there in his hand a moment, as he wondered what to do. Unable to come up with an alternative, he quickly tightened it around his neck, afraid of her wrath if he dallied. She handed him the last item, another belt, this one not a part of the shorts. Several items hung off of it, unrecognizable. When he had the belt buckled, he knew what they were. Leather cuffs for his wrists, to keep his arms trapped at his sides.

She buckled them for him, touching him for the first time. She ran her hand over his skin, tracing the contours of his muscles, teasing the hair that covered his body. He found his breath quickening, aroused at such a simple pleasure. Her hand lingered over his still warm ass, trailing across the covered welts on his buttocks. He flinched away from her touch, angering the woman. "Come," she ordered, pulling him roughly toward the classroom again.

Time for the sex, he imagined, wondering if they would do it on the desk, or would he be taken somewhere else. But she led him back to his seat, miraculously clean, and sat him back down.

**"Test time."**

She left a booklet, thick pencil and scantron form on his desk. "You have thirty minutes for this test. There are fifty multiple choice questions. For each one skipped or answered incorrectly, you will receive one strike of the paddle. Begin." The last word coincided with her turning the timer, which she set on the desk facing him.

Richie's mind froze. A test. A stupid fucking test. With his hands trapped at his waist, there was no way he could fill out a test form. It took almost minute for him to realize she wasn't kidding, as he watched her lift up the paddle. A large paddle.

Terrorized, he nosed open the booklet, recognizing it as a standard test they give in high school. Like the SATs he'd helped Angie study for. It took some work, but he got the pencil in his mouth. Ignoring the taste of eraser against his tongue, he began to read, careful to color inside the small round dots of the answer sheet.

Five questions were on the first two pages. After that, he had to set the pencil down and turn the page with his nose. In horror, he watched as the writing instrument slowly rolled off the desk, landing loudly on the floor.

Her gaze fastened on him when he looked up. A cold chill ran down his naked back. Hunger filled her eyes as she slowly stood, ruler gripped tightly in her hand. The echo of her shoes on the tile floor seemed unnaturally loud in the small classroom.

A strange sort of fear filled Richie as he watched her walk toward his chair. His heart pounded in his chest as he sat frozen, like a mouse under the gaze of a snake. Not the fear of death, an uneasy idea he had come to better terms with since his recent Immortality. No, the new terror consisted of pain -- a continuation of the torment she had already caused.

Nothing he could do would stop her. His whole purpose at this moment was her pleasure, reached by terrible agony inflicted on himself. Trapped wrists vainly tested the bonds that held him. Helpless. Vulnerable. Afraid.

The ruler edge slid over his chest slowly, leaving behind a trail of flushed skin. It scraped through his ruddy chest hair, circling each nipple like a shark teasing its prey. Richie held his breath, afraid to exhale, aware that one simple snap, or a dig into either mound of sensitive flesh, would shove him completely over the edge into hysteria.

"Please, ma'am...oh gods...." The voice came from his own lips. Anything, any appeasement to remove her instrument of torture. He couldn't face her. Instead, he looked ahead at the chalkboard, silently begging for mercy.

The ruler edge brushed gently across both nickle-sized points, already hardened in anticipation. A whimper overrode the words as conscious thought fled his mind. Another brush, slightly harder than the last, brought him to the verge of tears. "Please...." It was a whispered, breathy plea built on two decades of helplessness and desperation.

The ruler moved slowly away. Eyes watering, Richie tried to focus as she bent down and retrieved his pencil, setting it back on the desk. The young Immortal drank in huge lungfuls of air, coming close to hyperventilating. She moved back to the desk, setting the ruler on the surface once more.

"You have fifteen minutes left," she informed him with a cold glare.

Richie managed to finish the next two pages and most of the following two without dropping the pencil again. His gaze darted from the blurry text on the page to the incessantly ticking timer. He forced himself to calmly set the pencil aside for the page turn, balancing it against the booklet, using his nose to slide the paper over. All those tricks Angie had him drill into her came back -- discard the obviously false answers, first guesses are usually right -- gave him a fighting chance. At least on the ones he answered.

The ringing timer caught him in the middle of an answer. The teacher spared him the usual "pencils down!" command. She just walked over, eyes shining over his nearly naked body. Her hand gathered up the scantron form as the ruler settled under his chin and lifted, slightly.

He looked up, but that wasn't what she wanted. The pressure continued with the sharp edge digging into his throat until he struggled out of his seat. A sharp slap against his denim-clad butt got him moving toward the desk.

Guiding him like a frisky colt using biting snaps of the ruler, she positioned him as before, bent over the front of the desk, ass facing the empty classroom. Denied the freedom of his hands, he lay flat out on the cold, rough wood. His eyes lingered a moment over the eyebolt driven in the middle of the surface. He had little time to wonder, though. She circled his neck with an icy chain, pulling the ends close to the eyebolt. The sharp click of the padlock sounded as final as a gunshot.

With his neck bound to the desk, and his hands trapped at his side, she took her time stretching his legs apart, sliding her hands up and down his thighs. His skin was slick with sweat, but her demanding fingers, and sometimes nails, eased apart his limbs. Far enough for his ankles to be tied to the desk legs.

Tightly bound, ass up over the furniture, Richie waited. Waited for the first blow. Instead of corporeal punishment, she tortured him another way instead. She graded his test.

His head could turn far enough to see the grading machine in the corner. First, she scanned her answer key in, letting him watch and hear the impersonal grating of the machine components as it digested the filled-out form. His came next, his over-half empty, badly marked form. The machine whirred, coughing up the paper, his score marked neatly and precisely on the bottom.

08/50

The math involed was easy, even for the young man. Forty-two licks. More than the Romans gave their own citizens. Richie found it hysterically funny that he should remember an obscure fact from his days at the parochial school, now of all times. Forty-two. *He* was about to be marked neatly and precisely on the bottom.

She let the page linger in his view, dragging out the moment of dread. Unconsciously, Richie sighed, turning his head away from the paper. The teacher wadded up the form in his ear, probably angry, and threw it on the floor. He waited, fighting to keep his rear from clenching in fear. He had learned *that* lesson very early on in his life.

*WHACK*

The first swat hurt a thousand fold worse than a simple ruler. Richie gasped aloud. The pain coursed through his body and shattered his thoughts into a million tiny shards. The second strike came soon after, adding pain and agony to the already throbbing muscles.

*WHACK*

The paddle, wielded harshly by an active woman, met no resistance except thin denim. Tears formed quickly in Richie's eyes, the pain overwhelming. Not even the blasted nuns had been this bad.

*WHACK*

Oh, god, please stop, he prayed, aware that he screamed those very words between horrible cries and gasps. "PLEEEAAASSSEEEE!!!" Sometime the magic word actually worked. Now it did not.

*WHACK*

His butt felt shredded, the only sensation a numbing tingling interspersed between sharp jabs, until the time between hurt as worse as the actual paddling. Richie tasted the salty wetness coursing down his face, heard his unheeded screams. Everything hurt. Everything throbbed. His hands clutched helplessly at his side, fighting vainly to protect himself. All he felt was the red coursing angry sharp jabbing bright white....

_...light of the hospital corridor, driving a nail into his already pounding brain, His hands rested limply in his lap, unable to block out the offending glare. Every so often, when the pain became too much, a strangled whimper escaped his lips. But all he did was rock in the uncomfortable waiting-room chair, and pray for Mr. Delman to come back._

_Delman, the school counselor, had been the one to find him lying almost unconscious in the middle of the locker room floor. Luckily, he had keys to the Coach's office, and had called for an ambulance. After being told that it would could take up to thirty minutes, the middle aged man had practically carried the youth to his car, and gotten them to the hospital in a fraction of that time. They found emergency rooms on Friday nights constitued a nightmare._

_No worse that what I just went through, some masochistic part of Richie's brain sarcastically added._

_"It'll only be a few minuted more, Richie," Mr. Delman said in his ear. The young man jerked awake, unaware he had fallen into a doze while he waited. "Are you thirsty -- hungry?" the counselor asked._

_Richie shook his head, certain that if he opened his mouth, he would start screaming and never stop._

_A hand rested lightly on his shoulder, offering a brief moment comfort and support. Why is it that the good ones are always unable to do more? he thought. Richie knew he shouldn't linger over those thoughts, morbid as they were. He'd only start crying. He fought hard, letting only a whispered sniffle escape._

_Delman noticed though. "Don't worry, the doctor will be here soon," the older man repeated, totally missing the cause of Richie's distress. The hand disappeared, and Delman walked down the corridor again, probably sick of hovering over Richie._

_"I need these forms filled out," a nurse informed him, suddenly appearing in front of him. Richie looked up, taking in the clipboard held out to him and the scowl on the woman's face. He felt the hysteria bubbling just under his control as he blinked at her. "I said I *need* these...." Her voice faded as he pulled the claws he cradled in his lap up for her inspection, frozen from the pain and abuse. Her eyes widened fractionally, and she quickly turned and left without another word._

_She managed to find Mr. Delman just down the hall, arguing into the phone at the nurse's station. "What do you mean *no*," Richie heard the counselor bark into the phone. "He doesn't *have* any insurance. They're in Greece this month. I *talked* to the maid already, he's not covered. THEY DIDN'T SIGN THE FUCKING FORM." Silence swept the crowded waiting area after that. "Jump on the Coach for that, Phil, I'm busy. It was a school function, that why we *have* the blasted coverage." The noise from the slammed receiver echoed in the room._

_"Principle Higgins have a cow?" Richie asked the older man when he returned. He didn't expect an answer._

_A few moments later, teh consellor stirred uncomfortably in his seat. "Ms. Phelps informed me your parents won't be home for another three weeks," Delman informed him. "Would you want to stay with my mife and I? While you recuperate, of course."_

_Richie agreed, just as the nurse called out "Rico Ryan." The young man shook his head at the error to his name, wonder what else could possibly go wrong. He found out two days later when the hospital released him. Social Services waited, not nice Mr. Delman. He went back to the Boy's Ranch, and the smaller school nearby, and that took care of the problem with the basketball team. Just like all his other "problems" had ever been solved._

At some point, the past faded into memory, leaving him alone with the hot agony. His ass felt inflamed, each movement of his body not only driving his semi-hard cock into the painfully sharp desk edge, but contributing a dull throb from tortured buttocks. Richie knew she watched him cry. Unashamed, he let the tears fall, the small humiliation allowing some degree of comfort. He hurt, bad. And the tears kept his pain from overpowering him.

The paddle brushed across his thighs, his flinch driving his abused penis hard against the desk. A cry escaped his lips. "Please!" She laughed and continued to trace his bruised skin. He fidgeted as much as his bondage allowed. That only seemed to please her more.

It took her a while to move to the front of the desk, her leisurely pace giving the young Immortal a moment of peace. His legs began to cramp from their strenuous position, directing Richie's focus away from the woman climbing on the desk in front of him.

He opened his eyes as her skirt rustled, only inches away from him. Pale, creamy thighs rested on either side of his face, her feet resting against his back. She wore no undergarments, drawing Richie's focus to her naked crotch. He understood his task as it crystallized in his mind. Abusing a student wasn't her only fantasy.

Richie started kissing all around her inner thighs, straining his tongue as far as his leash allowed. The position of his neck so close to the surface forced his head upright. To help matters, her fingers yanking at his blond curls provided direction. All Richie had to do was lap at the closest available flesh.

Memories of happier experiences overlay the horrible feeling in his stomach. Donna had introduced him to the wonders of females, and Kristen had refined that knowledge. Richie found he enjoyed sex, or making love, or whatever people called it. What he did now could hardly be considered sex. It was....

Rape. Probably the only thing he was good for.

Still in shock, the bound Immortal made no attempt at erotic caresses. "You can do better than that, honey. If you don't want to *fail*." A light dig of her heel on his bare back, along with her cooed words, provided all the impetuous he needed to work harder. She had his full attention now.

Varying the strokes and alternating from light laps to firm thrusts, he even tried a hesitant graze of teeth on the milky skin until a sharp jerk of his hair stopped him. Soon he stretched further, trying to lick deeper between her legs. She scooted across the desk, closer to him, allowing his tongue. After a few licks, Richie could feel her starting to relax, her legs parting a little more with each swipe.

Then, on one very special stroke of his tongue, he tasted what he had only been smelling. With her thighs pressed tightly on either side and his face buried in her, the sensations flamed his labido. Even after being restrained, and whipped, his lustful drives took control of his body, sending pleasurable signals coursing through him.

He moaned, knowing full well his breath washed teasingly over sensitive flesh. His reward was another jerk of his hair and a painful squeeze from the thighs around his head. Aroused, Richie switched to long licks with the flat of his tongue. Anything to get this over with.

With each moment, he pushed a little farther, worked a little harder, until she grew warm and moist. Surrounded by the woman, all his attention focused on her, Richie ignored the pain from his swelling cock begging for attention, for satisfaction. The leash choked him unmercifully. Still he gave all of himself to her pleasure, leaving nothing for himself.

The young Immortal continued with licks and tongue thrusts until her hips moved uncontrollably and she moaned in pleasure. Her fingers tightened in his hair, hard jerks almost pulling the curls out by the roots. Richie could barely breathe. Desperate for an end, he strained forward and kissed her aroused bud.

Using his tongue like Kristin had taught him, his lips clamped down with just the right pressure as he sucked her to full hardness. She moaned loudly, barely able to contain her pleasure, writhing and bucking against his face. Richie felt ready to explode from lack of oxygen, but kept on until she cried aloud. Her body shuddered and she let out a deep moan as she came. The chain circling his neck dug into the skin, holding him in place against her wild thrashing.

Her legs loosened as well as her death grip on his hair. She calmed down, no longer thrusting against his immobilized head. They both gasped violently, gulping in sweet, precious air. His heart beat loudly in his chest, and his manhood felt ready to explode. He lay his head against her sweat-coated thigh, his tears mixing with her moistness. Over. Done.

Her hand curled through his hair jerked his face forward again. He whimpered when he heard her order, but not a sound escaped the squirming crotch.

"Lick it clean! We'll start again after recess."

* * *

 

When the guards threw him back into his cell, they didn't bother to remove the restraints that still pinned Richie's wrists to his waist. Unable to check his fall, the Immortal landed hard on the cement floor. He lay there as the door closed, not daring to move until he heard the guards finally leave. Then he was alone.

Though he felt badly in need of cleaning up, Richie instead slid himself over to the mat. It would be difficult to make it to the toilet and wash his face without benefit of hands. Rest sounded much better.

The Immortal tossed on the thin padding, too worked up to sleep. He still ached, unrelieved after satisfying that monster of a woman five times. She had done nothing to help him. With his hands still bound, he couldn't help himself. Crushing his packed basket into the mat, he started grinding into the plastic desperately. Only a mental admonishment that the Mistress might be displeased stopped him. He moaned, sliding around to his back, hands clawed in frustration.

There had been too many painful memories wrapped up the fantasy to make it anything other than horrible. His hands, school. Exhausted, needy, his mind drifted back as he fought to relax.

Social services had taken him back to the orphanage, not even letting him return to the foster parent's for his things. The priest that ran the shelter waited for him, giving a stern lecture on his misbehavior in the locker room before turning him over to a nun. The Sister motioned toward him with the ruler she kept in her hand, directing him to the place of punishment....

Richie woke up screaming, struggling against the leather binding his wrists. Phantom pain shot through his hands and buttocks, the evening's true activity vanished from his healed body. Only the remembered pain stayed with him.

There must be a lesson in all this, Richie decided. Breathing hard, he stared at the light in the ceiling, wondering what he should learn. He thought he had escaped his past, where his only value rested in his willingness to obey others, his survival a matter of someone else's whim.

Life with Duncan had changed all that, so he thought at the time. An escape. Maybe that wasn't what it had been, more a respite than true freedom. He had grown so much during that time, and now come full circle back to his starting point. Helpless. Again. A plaything of people in control: the Mistress, Social Services, Father Andrews, his foster parents. Mac and Tessa had been flukes, really. Of course it couldn't last forever. He had been a fool to think that, to think he could escape his purpose in life.

No matter what, he had to try and free Duncan from all this. The Highlander had no purpose being here. He shouldn't be punished for trying to help, in his own Boy Scout way. Richie owed him that, for all the effort the Scot had made. Duncan needed to be returned to his life, to help those that needed him. Back to the loft and dojo, the quiet suppers and warm nights at Joe's....

It had been nice while it lasted, he reflected dreamily.


	3. Session Two: Losin' My Religion

Richie lay on the sleeping mat, on his back, one arm thrown over his face in an attempt to block out the ever-present ceiling light. His body shivered, every nerve tense with expectation. He only slept briefly, if at all, waiting for the first noise that signaled the door unlocking. That might give him enough time to be in position when whoever strolled in.

The guards had left him alone after his session with the teacher, only entering to unlock the restraints and leave him a tray of food. Many hours later, another tray had been brought, laden down with fruits and bread. After the third meal, the Mistress had finally appeared, taking stock of him as he struggled into position while the guards continued to kick him. She sounded disappointed that he had failed her by not being prepared for her attentions. Strangely, he felt that way also.

His contemplation halted abruptly as the soft sound of footsteps outside snapped him back to the present. His muscles protested as he scrambled into place, kneeling with legs spread wide, hands crossed firmly in the small of his back. As soon as the door opened, he glanced down. To be caught gazing at the Mistress would bring instant punishment.

Another person entered with her. Soft hairs on the back of the Immortal's neck prickled. His dislike for her companion grew each time they came in contact. He wondered what she saw in an oaf like him. From deep inside, a sense of competition erupted. Richie stretched himself higher, preening in a show for her. Anything to capture her attentions for himself.

She ran a hand over his bare skin, examining him for marks. Finding none, she gestured to her associate. They whispered for a time, giving Richie a brief chance to glimpse upward. Both had dark hair, her's brunette, long and curly, his shoulder-length and black as night. The young Immortal also caught a name -- Marcus.

The Mistress left, leaving the two men alone. The Immortal barely flinched as Marcus' strong hands reattached his collar. Funny, how he had started thinking of it as that. Not *the* collar, *his* collar. Without time to dwell on the disturbing thought, Marcus jerked him forward. Richie struggled to his feet, following the man down the hall quickly, a sharp tug now and then to hurry him along.

They made their way down the dark corridors to a room, light and airy. Any hopes of escaped fell apart when Richie noticed the oddness of it all. Ornate columns dotted the walls, with sheet billowing in the fake breeze. The "sunlight" came from a light fixture with bright lamps. The scenery outside turned out to be large murals of a green, luscious countryside. In the center of the room, a large divan sat surrounded by a handful of nude males, all collared. Marcus jerked Richie forward, attaching his leash to the divan.

The Immortal glance covertly at the others similarly attached to the one piece of furniture. They all looked to be around twenty, thirty years old. All muscular, and in Richie's opinion, unbelievably handsome. Everyone knelt in the position of respect, awaiting their task. Richie knew better than to talk yet, someone could walk in at any moment.

Time dragged by, the silence punctuated six heavy breaths. A leg began the faint protest before a cramp, but Richie stayed frozen. Before the pain became too great, a loud trumpet sounded, ushering in a large, heavy-set woman in a painfully inadequate toga.

She had paid for a Roman feast.

As soft music played in the background, all six men fed her from overloaded trays of food. When she wasn't licking their fingers, she expected them to massage her bloated body, or kiss her skin, or murmur passionate words in her ear. With a short leash attached to their collars, they couldn't move away from her groping hand that pinched and fondled their naked flesh.

At one point, she poured wine over a man across from Richie, pulling the struggling slave close enough to lick. He yelped as her teeth dug into unprotected skin, drawing blood.

"Just go with it," one man next to Richie informed him in a low whisper. "She won't hurt you unless you fight her."

When Richie's turn came to experience the wine, he already had a plan. While her attention wandered elsewhere, he pilfered a wine jug, taking a hefty swallow. As her eyes fixated on him, he slid forward, intercepting her smile. His lips mashed into hers, lips opening under the assault. He shared the wine held in his mouth with her, fighting to keep from regurgitating as her hands painfully gripped his genitals.

She drained him dry, licking his teeth to get every drop. With a giggle, she pushed him back, hard enough to send him sprawling. Richie choked as the leash yanked his collar tight around his neck, but it had been worth it -- she left him relatively alone after that.

After some time had passed, the woman clapped her meaty hands, breaking the gentleness of the room. As the six continued to please her, two other men approached, bowing low when they stood in the middle of a padded area in front of her divan.

Both of the newcomers wore no clothing and sported massive erections, kept engorged by leather thongs wrapped around their genitals. Athletic and muscular, their smooth golden skin had been oiled until it glistened. Not a hair could be found from their necks down, but Richie had no clue if that was natural or they had been shaved.

"Entertainment," a voice whispered nearby as Richie looked over at the pair. A chin rested on the Immortal's shoulder and murmured gently near Richie's ear, so that barely any sound escaped. "It's safe to watch as long as you keep stroking her. She'll be too engrossed in the fight to notice you're not adoring her."

Richie divided his attention between running his hands over the woman on the divan and the suddenly wrestling pair on the mats. The grunts echoed loudly in the room as each man tried to get the other in a hold or break free.

It seemed like another world to the Immortal, watching the two men fight for the woman's pleasure. Richie found his breath shortened as he looked on, fascinated. What he saw bore little resemblance to the horseplay he and Duncan had engaged in a few times after workouts. It looked more like animals coupling -- something he found hilarious in his biology class films. Now it looked...enjoyable.

The pair slipped and slid over the greasy mats, struggling to clamp a hold on the other. Slick skin made it difficult. But several good possibilities failed to be taken advantage of, in Richie's opinion. Almost as if....

"They continue until one of them is penetrated and fucked," the voice informed him. Richie's eyes never left the ongoing battle, not even when a hand slipped over his hip and latched onto his half-erect member.

Richie found the fight interesting. Exciting. Arousing. The grunting and panting reminded him too much of sex. He had always been been easily worked up, his body frozen in time at the peak of his sexuality. His breathing quickened, then he gasped as the hand squeezed and sent erotic tinglings through his sweating body. The Immortal arched, pushing hard against the hand, all other thoughts besides getting off brushed aside.

The hand clenched, hard enough to get his attention with only a minor amount of pain. "Keep working on the woman!" the voice hissed. "Or *we'll* be out there -- or worse!"

A whimper escaped Richie's lips as the man behind him guided his hands back to the woman's flesh. He stroked her, shuddering each time the fingers clasping him pulled up. The fight, the woman, the unexpected caressing all brought Richie into full heat quickly. Luckily, sounds from the mats drowned out his own moaning.

"Now!" the voice in his ear ordered as a cry erupted from the mat. Richie's eyes closed, his last sight that of the loser being mounted painfully by the other wrestler. The hand gripped tightly, sending a rush of pleasure through the Immortal's groin.

"Oh, damn," Richie cursed, quickly biting his lip to keep silent. The rape in front of him occupied everyone's attention, letting him shudder and tremble through his orgasm unobserved. He felt himself calming, losing the edge, still enjoying the lazy caresses of the hand on his cock.

The wrestling finished. So did Richie. The hand wiped off the hot semen, letting it pool in the palm. Richie watched it being raised to his lips as the voice urged him from behind. "Clean it off. If we are caught....."

Richie needed no more impetus. Afraid of what would happen to him, he quickly licked the palm clean, barely pausing to marvel at the taste. The taste of him. His seed. He blushed at the humiliation, but fear repressed the nausea that threatened.

"More food," the woman ordered breathlessly, breaking the spell.

The hand disappeared, leaving Richie to lick the last of his semen off his lips. For the next few minutes, while the woman continued to eat, the Immortal tried to quietly finish cleaning himself. Thankful that all six of them had continually cleaned the food bits and juices from their fingers during the meal -- their only taste of the feast -- Richie managed to erase most of the evidence of the masturbation.

As the food ran out, the woman became more agitated. When she finally finished, she looked them over, eyeing Richie with a grin. "You," she announced, pointing at the Immortal.

Confused, Richie looked around the group, wondering what had occurred. The other five men relaxed, one even muttering a prayer of thanks. The sound drew her attention, and she fixed on the man opposite the divan from Richie. "No, you!" she crowed, sending tremor of terror through the poor guy.

"Please," the chosen man begged, as the guards unlock his collar from the side of the divan and moved him to the foot, shortening the chain and locking it to the couch again. The woman cackled, sliding down toward the terrified man.

"He's gonna have to fuck her," the man next to Richie whispered. He couldn't take his eyes off the sight, watching the poor man's equipment getting worked up by the woman. The Immortal found the sight, and subsequent act revolting. He turned away and found himself inches away from emerald green eyes.

"Don't worry, only one of us will have to satisfy her," the other whispered, a humorous gleam echoing in the sparkling eyes. "But she's a bugger to get off, and he'll be raw by the time she's satisfied."

A hand rested on Richie's back, urging him toward the woman, already lost in the frenzy of sex. "We must keep her aroused again, or face the whip." So Richie and the other four kissed, fondled, licked and panted until the poor man at the end managed to drive her over the edge.

The woman floundered on the divan, her pale skin shaking from her orgasm. The guards came and removed the slaves quickly, leaving the woman alone in the room. Richie looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of the man who had been beside him, but the groups split up, and Richie struggled after the guard alone.

Once back in the cell, he collapsed on the mat, exhausted. He needed time to think, to recuperate. His mouth tasted...funny. Running his tongue over his teeth, he found small patches of saltiness, aware that tasting himself seemed...not so strange. Like watching the two men as they struggled to impale the other for the woman's amusement. Confused, Richie turned over on the mat, squashing his already hardening shaft against the floor.

How could he possibly have enjoyed that?

Unwilling to continue that train of thought, Richie tried to relax enough to sleep. It took quite a while for his mind to picture anything besides the lady, vibrating on the divan, looking so much like a beached whale during an earthquake. He finally drifted off, so deep that he didn't hear the door.

Pain exploded in his side as a booted foot jabbed into his body. Richie screamed, curling into a fetal ball, but hands grabbed him, dragging him to his knees and forcing him into the position of respect. With his knees spread widely, he watched helplessly as the booted foot nudged his groin.

"Can't learn your lesson, can you *slave*," Marcus hissed. The toe point drug across Richie's cock, pinning it to his abdomen. "That's why she let *me* have you."

A hand curled through Richie's hair, gripping tightly before yanking his head upwards. The Immortal got a good look at Marcus' face. Handsome, in a harsh sort of way. Creases in the skin that made him look older. Or well used, Richie silently added. Almost black eyes to match the hair, a set of full, red lips. And the guy practically drooled as he gazed over Richie.

"Your virgin ass gets auctioned off tomorrow night, so I can't touch it, but there's a lot more holes I can explore."

Marcus' free hand undid the cod piece of his pants, revealing a nicely shaved crotched, and a lengthening penis. Heedless of punishment, Richie shied away, only to find the painful grip of his hair kept him trapped.

Fingers brushed Richie's cheek, almost a caress. "Come on, little man. You know you want it. I saw how hot you were earlier. Got off watching those two going at it on the mat. Yeah, you're one horny sucker...."

Richie opened his mouth to protest. Exactly what Marcus had been waiting for.

Despite everything Donna, Angie and several other girls from the neighborhood had told him about the subject, it most certainly *wasn't* 'just like eating a hot dog.'

It smelled putrid, tasted unbearably bitter...and a hot dog neither pulsed or moved quite like that in his mouth. In his shock, Richie bit down, gagging at the smell and taste.

"GOD DAMN YOU!" With a roar, the invader in Richie's mouth disappeared, the hand still clenched in his hair jerking his face away.

*SLAP*

The force of the blow rocked Richie's head sideways, causing spots to blossom in his sight. A booted foot kicked him in the chest, sending him tumbling backwards. Another kick landed on his side, tossing him over. "Thought a little whore like you would know how to suck it better!" Marcus bellowed, adding another boot to Richie's unprotected rump. "You need a little more practice, pussy boy! And I know just the fucking thing."

A hand gripped his curly hair again, lifting him until he stood on shaky legs. Marcus' finger slid into the front ring of Richie's collar, and the Immortal found himself being dragged along behind the man.

 

* * *

Richie paused, jerking at the leash when he saw what occupied the room Marcus dragged him toward. Not what -- who.

Even with a full leather hood obscuring the person's whole head, Richie knew the body in the center. Even without the inhuman recognition, he recognized the other Immortal. He had trained for years, even lived with the blatantly nude male form that sported straps at chest, stomach, thighs, knees and ankles. Binding all the limbs tightly and forming a living column, held upright by a rope from the ceiling attached to the top of the mask. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.

"Your friend here has been...difficult," Marcus informed him, pulling Richie steadily to the center of the room. "You can practice on him."

While he looked over the bound Scot, Marcus removed the leash and added handcuffs, locking Richie's wrists behind his back. A forceful shove sent the Immortal to his knees. He looked up, examining every curve and sinew before him.

Marcus reach out and snapped a leather band around Duncan's testicles, then added a very short chain. "Come 'ere," the man ordered as he jerked Richie's collar. Two fingers dug into the young Immortal's jaw until the pain became too great and he opened his mouth.

Instantly, Marcus shoved his head forward, guiding MacLeod's soft penis into Richie's parted lips. The strange invader slid down his throat until his nose rested in wiry pubic hair. The loud snap of the chain on his collar alerted Richie that he no longer had freedom of movement.

"Work on *that,* boy."

The laughing man departed, leaving the two Immortals alone. Saliva pooled in Richie's mouth as he fought down panic. He had to do something -- but what? Marcus made it sound like they would be like this for some time. His first concern should be comfort.

Carefully, the young man shifted forward, so that he didn't need to lean outward so much. His jaw hurt from Marcus' grasp, compounded by an ache from keeping his teeth away from the soft and unprotected flesh that now occupied his mouth.

Duncan jerked back, as much as he could in the bondage, trying to free his cock. That only tugged painfully on his balls and pulled Richie forward. The young Immortal protested wordlessly at the sudden movement, muffled sounds escaping his lips. The Scot settled down, hopefully realizing the helplessness of the situation.

Slowly, Richie swallowed the gathering saliva in his mouth, knowing how it must feel to MacLeod. It wouldn't be difficult for the Highlander to guess who currently had their lips wrapped around his precious penis. How many Immortals could be in this Hell? Richie wondered if that knowledge made Duncan feel better or worse. It certainly embarrassed him.

It surprised Richie how...natural?...the thing felt. Nothing like the violent intrusion with Marcus. Duncan tasted almost the same as Richie's own skin. Not bitter, not vile. Incredibly warm and tender. Still not like a hot dog, but....

A sudden thought slammed into his brain. He couldn't be *enjoying* this, could he? His face burned and his heart pounded. He hated this. Hated Marcus. Hated himself. He should have known his past would catch up with him, but Duncan.... MacLeod shouldn't be involved in this. Angry at how his friend had been drawn up in his sorted existence, he huffed, unconsciously blowing hot air across the sensitive organ in his mouth.

A movement of the soft penis startled Richie, causing him to gasp. The lungful of air brought with it the scent of Duncan, all woodsy and musty to Richie's imagination. He had sampled that fragrance often as they worked out together, neither Immortal too sensitive to let a little sweat stop their activities.

Now, the scent reminded Richie of home. No place specifically, just the nebulous feeling of.... No, he certainly didn't feel safe or content at the moment. Accepted. He could picture the dusty dojo, smell the stale air. Funny how near his heart a run-down place like that could be. Even the clink of weights echoed in his head, the shout as....

_...he landed on the mat. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath. MacLeod just stood at the corner, hunched over and beckoning with his finger. A smile graced the Scot's lips, one that boded ill for the young Immortal._

_"You're still too slow," the Highlander teased, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes._

_With a sigh, Richie struggled to his feet, wiping his slick hands on his sweatpants. Not that it helped the irritating sensation of sweat trickling down his neck or the clammy feeling in his jockstrap. He found small comfort in seeing that MacLeod looked as bad as he felt._

_Richie lunged, striking at the exposed side as MacLeod blocked. A hand reached for his unprotected head, but he ducked. He threw a solid right which managed to land on Duncan's stomach, but without enough force to be more than a love-tap._

_The Highlander danced away, *tisking* a bit. "You hit like a girl, Richie."_

_Slightly perturbed at the mild ribbing, Richie attacked again. Bending low, he rammed his shoulder in the unprotected stomach of MacLeod, driving him back. Rewarded by a sharp exhale of breath as they slammed into a metal brace, he felt Duncan's powerful arm slide around his head, trapping it between bicep and side._

_Unable to escape, Richie shoved again, driving MacLeod into the equipment. He decided to risk a third attempt when Duncan's elbow landed forcefully on his back. The power of the blow and the Highlander's weight on his neck drove him to his knees._

_Luckily for the young Immortal, his skill equaled Duncan once they wrestled on the mat. Unable to use martial arts in such close quarters, the Highlander struggled to keep the headlock on the smaller man. When sweat-slicked skin didn't help his escape, Richie tried a few ineffective punches to MacLeod's abdomen._

_A handful of sweatpants helped Duncan roll Richie onto his back, pinning the young man to the floor. Easily, the Scot slipped around until his arm encircled the young man's neck, forcing the blond head into his side while using his back to trap Richie's torso against the mat. Once in a position of strength, MacLeod waited him out, giving both of them a chance to recover._

_In Richie's case, his head being squeezed between the proverbial rock and hard place complicated his breathing. Lightheaded, he quickly used up what little air he could get. He could only smell sweat and Duncan's musky scent, as stifling as a perfume shop in summer. Desperate and close to blacking out, Richie tried one last time to throw Duncan off and free his head._

_"Oh, no you don't," MacLeod informed his captive as Richie bucked, riding out the attempt with ease. Feeling the body under him abruptly slacken, Duncan released the blond head, whirling around to straddle Richie's stomach. "Can't have you choking to death, can we?" the Scot leaned over and asked. Letting Richie gulp in fresh air, he straightened the young man's splayed limbs, using muscled thighs to pin his arms against his side._

_Tired and depleted, Richie found himself well and truly trapped._

_Duncan leaned forward and graced the pinned Immortal with a mock leer. "Pretty good for a kid," he teased while he tousled the blond hair._

_Richie hated being called "kid" or "boy," but MacLeod had him helpless and could do what he wanted. That thought and the warm, heavy body straddling him kept him tense and teetering on a knife edge. The point where he would promise Duncan anything to finish it. One part wanted this to end, to relax and let go of the heightened senses, the adrenaline. The other begged to stay like this forever. Something had to give. Sweat dripped across a sensitive patch of inner thigh, making him squirm violently._

_"Ready to call it a day?" Duncan challenged, misreading the cause of the wiggling as an attempt at escape. Having reached the plateau of blissful agony, Richie nodded. The Highlander grinned and made no move to rise. "Give up?"_

_The young Immortal groaned, adding a slight negative shake with his head in case Duncan couldn't tell. The rest of the day would be hell if he said yes. And since MacLeod had already asked him to supper and a movie this evening, he had no wish to sneak out the back way after he showered._

_Duncan's chuckle drew his eyes open. MacLeod's fist had one knuckle raised, and it hovered threateningly over his unprotected chest. His low-cut tanktop provided an unobstructed view of the tempting target -- his sternum. That little sliver of bone in the valley between his pectorals. "Say uncle," Duncan offered before either moved a muscle. He took the young Immortal's silence for a negative._

_Having a knuckle tapping on the bone felt more aggravating than painful. But each tap in the same spot grew worse by the second. Soon he squirmed for the second time, trying to move from underneath the steady irritation. Without his arms, he had no way to stop the Highlander._

_"Say uncle," MacLeod ordered, easily compensating for Richie's thrashing to continue his assault on the sore spot. The young man cursed as perspiration broke out all over his body. The mild pain slowly blossomed into agony as he arched upwards, fighting vainly to shake the tormenting knuckle._

_Without conscious thought, Richie vocalized his suffering. "Maaaaaac!" Once the word left his mouth, the young Immortal's ears transmitted the sound to his brain, where his mind instantly picked up the annoying whine that suffused his plea. Once he became an Immortal, he had vowed never to whine again, a silent promise to Tessa's ghost._

_Ashamed at how easily he slipped back into patterns best forgotten, he went limp. His head rolled to the side, the easiest way to avoid seeing Duncan's frown of disappointment Richie knew graced his face. Acting like a spoiled brat *again*. How could the Highlander treat him like an adult -- an equal -- if he continually behaved so childishly?_

_A wince of pain crossed his pale features as he berated himself. Stupid, useless, whining, pitiful child. All the words they had called him growing up, where he never fit in, never belonged. God, no wonder Duncan always sent him away...._

_"Richie?"_

_The word Duncan whispered barely registered, as did the motionless man still on top of him. The tormenting hand that now braced MacLeod rested inches from Richie's face but the young man didn't see it. "Rich?" The hand gently turned his face upwards, the better to see the Scottish features frozen in concern. "Are you all right? Did I hurt you...."_

_The intensity of the emotions aimed at him finally broke through Richie's control, freeing the disgust and contempt just waiting for a chance to embrace him. "Get off me!" he yelled as he pushed Duncan off and sat up. He quickly scrambled to his feet, searching for the nearest escape. The stairs to the locker room._

_He managed only a few hurried steps before Duncan latched firmly on his bare forearm, spinning him around and enveloping him in a tight bearhug. "I'm sorry, Richie," the lightly accented voice apologized in his ear. "I didn't mean for it to get out of hand."_

_A hand rested on the back of his head, guiding his face into the crook of the Highlander's neck. Richie's lips tasted the sweaty flesh of shoulder by the tanktop strap, his nose filled with the heady scent of the man who held him. His arms rested limply at his side, unable to rise and return the gesture, the comfort being lavished on him._

_Just like MacLeod to confuse which of them mattered and which didn't. Feeling worthless, Richie pushed against the warm body, trying to get away. But the arms trapped him, encircling him in a safe haven. Duncan had always meant safety, belonging, comfort. One of the only two people that gave a damn. Try as he might, his body betrayed him, relaxing against the sweaty chest and letting his fears, his doubts disappear like mist._

_He could cry in this haven. Rest against the broad shoulders. Weep if his pain grew too great and take comfort from the man who cherished him. His breath whispered past his lips as he exhaled, drawing in the familiar aroma..._

...that clogged his nostrils, buried deep in wiry black hair. The pulsing shaft filled his mouth, insistent on crawling down his throat. The invader pressed against the back of his tongue, triggering his gag reflex. Richie choked, trying to spit it out.

He fought the handcuffs, pulling away, suddenly panicking at the loss of air. Duncan's muffled cry of pain accompanied a thrust that shoved the shaft deeper. Richie's own moan only teased it more.

In desperation, Richie swallowed the accumulation of spit that coated the Scot's penis trapped in his mouth. It trembled, like a thing possessed. Sweating and scared, the young Immortal tightened his lips, trying to find a purchase on the slippery flesh. Duncan drew back, incoherent sounds coming from the leather hood, but immediately thrust again to lessen the pain.

A rhythm developed, as MacLeod drew back as long as he could stand it to allow Richie to breathe, followed by a piercing thrust to ease the ache in his balls. Jaws stiff from exertion relaxed fractionally, allowing the young man's teeth to graze the shaft. The Highlander barked as his sensitive flesh scraped painfully with each lunge.

Richie fought for air, his tongue becoming an unwitting participant. He could tasty a salty hint as he swallowed. Muffled grunts punctuated each of Duncan's movements, as the rhythm sped faster and rougher. It became harder to catch a breath as his head shook from the force of the plunge.

Duncan froze, his rock hard shaft buried deep down Richie's gullet, cutting off air, filling his throat. An incoherent scream rose in volume from the Highlander's covered head as his bound muscles quivered with strain.

Choking, Richie struggled to pull back, anything to remove in the invader, but his collar trapped him against Duncan's body. Tears ran down his cheeks as flashes of lights exploded behind his eyes and a lightheadedness overtook him. Vaguely aware of the liquid that exploded down his violated throat, he fought to stay conscious.

The onslaught of semen subsided to a dribble down his throat. The pulsating rod shrank, enough for him to gulp in precious air. His sinuses had drained, each lungful making a noisy, sickening sound. But he could breathe again, the only thing he had prayed for in the last few seconds.

Duncan's shaking body grew still and cold, the smell of sweat and sex growing duller. The Highlander's shaft once again settled on Richie's raw tongue, an inanimate beast that he found bearable. He wondered how his mentor felt about what had happened. Ashamed? Angry? Would this be the final blow that destroyed their relationship?

He wiggled, his strained position causing pain in his thighs and back. How long until Marcus came back and released them? That had been the objective, Richie giving head. Practicing. How long until they took him back to his cell, to let him spend every waking hour wondering what Duncan though of him now. Richie, the cocksucker.

For as he knelt there at his teacher's feet, he found himself painfully aroused.

* * *

 

By the fifth time Duncan became aroused, after what felt like hours had passed, Richie had learned to suckle quickly, hurrying the Scot to climax. Anything to get it over with. He thought himself quite good at it, able to bring the act to completion in under two minutes. Of course, by this time, MacLeod's ejaculations hardly counted, drained as the Immortal was.

But the taste of semen still coated his mouth and throat. Richie imagined he'd never be able to forget that flavor.

* * *

 

_Duncan leaned over him, straddling his stomach, using one hand to pinion his wrists to the mat above his head. "Give up?" the Highlander asked with a grin, as he drew patterns in the sweaty hair on Richie's naked chest. "You know I have ways to make you..." his teacher threatened._

_The hard bulge in the Scot's speedo pressed against the young Immortal's abdomen, announcing exactly what his submission entailed. He grimaced as fingers trailed around first one nipple and then the other, the tender points hardening in pleasure despite his vocal protests._

_"You want it, you little prick-tease," Duncan chided, adding a quick pinch to a hardened nub that caused Richie to arch his chest and hiss. His other tit received a similar torture, adding a fresh sheen of sweat to his glistening, pale skin. "Enjoying it, faggot?"_

_"Please," Richie begged, already knowing he had lost the fight. No way to throw MacLeod off, the heavier body trapping him, dominating him. The finger trailed along the cleft between his stretched pectorals, skimming lower through the mat of fine, blond hair. He tensed, expecting anything from a light caress to a painful blow in his unprotected gut._

_The Highlander merely drew circles on his abdomen, scraping his nails lightly over the muscled torso. The sensations made Richie shiver uncontrollable. Duncan chuckled as he brought his thumb up to the tight red lips, rubbing over them. The young Immortal could taste the salty perspiration that coated his tormented body._

_The thumb pressed harder, forcing its way deeper into Richie's mouth. He opened reluctantly, his dignity fighting against the need to keep MacLeod happy. "That's it," the Highlander cooed, thrusting all the way in and out. "That's a nice little cocksucker."_

_Richie coated the digit liberally with saliva as it explored his oral cavity, brushing over his teeth and tongue. Duncan's breathing became heavier, his eyelids drooping as he tormented his trapped student. "That's *exactly* the way to do it...."_

_With a popping sound, MacLeod drew out his thumb, wiping the saliva of on Richie's cheek. "That's enough of a warm up," he whispered, pressing down harder on Richie's trapped wrists. "Now for something better." Rocking back and forth, he wiggled his way up Richie's taut torso, the tightly packed basket straining in the speedo and inching closer and closer to Richie's helpless face. Unable to buck off the Highlander, the young Immortal watched in horror as the clearly outlined shaft -- hard and throbbing -- scooted nearer to his mouth, locked open in a primal scream......._

....as he sat up suddenly, his heart racing. His naked body shivered from more than just the chill, his skin clammy and sticking to the sleeping mat in his cell. "God," he exclaimed breathlessly. "Only a dream," he told himself as he lay back down. "Only a dream."

Richie never noticed the real tears that coursed down his cheeks.

* * *

 

"Get in there, slut," Marcus barked as he pushed Richie into his cell. The Immortal fell hard, unable to use his hands to check his fall. The guards had kept his wrists locked at the side of his waist for the past two days. The young man's schedule consisted of long nights spent painfully aroused and horrible days on his knees, "practicing" on whoever Marcus had available.

Richie had quickly learned to deep throat *all* sizes, all shapes. Even the guards themselves asked to be next, but Marcus insisted he give head to only slaves like himself. "Only fit for trash," the man decreed.

Kept in constant bondage at night, the young Immortal made an easy target. The guards found it easy to sneak into his cell during their shifts, "testing" his new abilities despite their orders. Richie could only lie there, pressed into the cell floor from their weight, as they opened their pants and shoved themselves into his abused mouth. He'd quickly learned to satisfy them without protest.

"Tonight's a special night for you," Marcus informed him, dragging his thoughts back to the present. "Your cherry ass goes on sale to the highest bidder. Then *I'll* get a 'crack' at it." The laugh that accompanied the bad pun drowned out the Immortal's muffled gasp as a dry finger poked itself into Richie's tight hole.

Unable to stop the assault, Richie turned over on his stomach, spreading his legs apart like he remembered the other slaves doing. The invading finger twisted around, exploring the virginal area. He wanted to crawl away, hide in a corner, but such an action would bring down Marcus' wrath, and he wanted no more of that particular pain.

"You're a natural," his tormenter informed him. "Just a natural-born slut, exactly like the Mistress said."

That though brought a bittersweet ache to Richie's groin. What had the Mistress told others about him? What did she know that he had yet to guess?

* * *

 

The blindfold obscured his vision, but from the booming echo in his ears, Richie guessed the room to be larger than most. Unable to pause as the guards dragged him along, he worked at not letting his feet get caught in the shackles on his ankles. The clinking sound of metal on the cement floor disappeared as he stepped onto carpet.

All around him, the young Immortal could hear sounds of others, a soft sigh expelled around a gag or the scrape of flesh against restraints. The "auction" Marcus had gone on about. The sounds disappeared behind him, leaving Richie and his entourage in silence.

"Here you go," the guard announced, using an arm to bring Richie to a halt. A fist to his unprepared gut made him reflexively bend over. His collared neck slid into position in a grove of a wooden beam. Moments later, his unchained wrists rested in two smaller groves on either side. The top slate pressed on the backs of his neck and wrists as it settled into place. A brief struggle assured the Immortal it had been locked down. Richie again found himself trapped, bent over and helpless.

The guards removed the shackles and kicked his feet apart, adding a metal bar between his ankles to keep them spread. Feeling vulnerable, Richie shifted as much as his bondage allowed. And waited.

He hated being tied up. After days of almost continual bondage, he forced himself to to relax. Or he'd go crazy. The young man had little choice in leaning to be patient. He found the leather, metal and wood restraints unforgiving teachers.

Lately he could wait for hours with little more than small movements to keep his muscles from cramping. His mind spun with thoughts, painful ideas his constant chatter usually kept at bay. Forced to do nothing, in whatever position his masters deemed appropriate, he could focus on all the things he had done in his life. The mistakes, the screw-ups, the stupid choices that earned him such a harsh level of punishment.

Time stood still as he chastised himself, slashing a deeper cut than anything leather or steel could produce. He bled straight from his worthless soul. Bad karma, his thoughts kept returning to, over and over, finding no other solution than cosmic irony. Kasim would have called this justice for crimes in a previous life. And as the circle spun round, eternally bringing him no place else, Richie came to accept this life as just and right....

It seemed moments later when someone returned. The blindfold fell away, the sudden brightness making Richie's eyes water. He smelled *her* right in front of him, vanilla mixed with musk. She forced his chin up, using her thumbs to wipe away the moisture. Her hands traced along his naked flesh as she circled him, testing the stocks and stroking him.

"He'll do. Gag him, though. I'm sure he's unused to the attention."

Marcus hovered at the edge of his vision, writing on a clipboard. At her order, he nodded and smiled evilly. Then the pair left, Richie once again alone to ponder his fate.

Soon, guards led other slaves into the room. Each group made for one of the devices scattered in the hall in the small area Richie could see. Hardly any slaves struggled, walking like lambs to the foreboding instruments. Then the guards would bend and fold the naked forms into horrible and painful positions, locking limbs and bodies down with unforgiving restraints.

Gags muffled the whimpers. Leather hoods encased the pain-wracked faces and hid the tears. Straps shoved genitals away from bodies and separated them, blood-filled cocks forced through tight metal rings to keep them straining. Richie watched as the Mistress examined each setting, her voice murmuring low as she instructed Marcus and gestured at the tableau. Sometimes nothing would change, other times the slaves ended up rearranged to better suit her tastes and whims.

Marcus came back to him, after all the devices in Richie's field of vision had bodies attached. One hand held a dreaded ball gag while the other brandished a long, thin object. Bound in such a restricted position, the young Immortal had trouble looking up when Marcus arrived in front of him.

"Guess what I brought for you?" the man asked.

The object looked like a stand of some kind, but Richie had never seen anything remotely like it, except for maybe a coat rack. He felt it safer to comment on the item he did know. "A...a gag..."

*Slap*

Richie's face hurt where Marcus' hand connected with it, the sudden blow to the head wrenching his neck in the wooden stocks. "Don't play smart with *me*, you stupid bitch. Guess again!"

The blond shook the item once more, as if shaking it would help a stupid slave identify it. The bottom part had to be a stand of some kind, the top resembling a high-lipped bowl. Some sort of yellowish goo filled it, and a sign wiggled from side to side, violently enough to keep Richie from reading it.

"Uh...uh...I don't know!" Richie wailed.

Marcus raised his hand again, causing the young man to flinch even though it never hit. "Read it," the man ordered, holding the sign to his face.

*Virgin ass. One finger maximum. Please use grease.*

By the time Marcus buckled the gag and left the object near Richie's rear, the Immortal had figured it out. His eyes grew wide and his struggles doubled, but he could not escape. He, like everyone else around him, stood on display, the wares being sold tonight available for examination.

Richie would get finger-fucked by everyone.

Patience deserted him. Time slowed to a crawl as he fought the wood stocks. His mind plunged into blackness, full of horror, as the truth of his situation overwhelmed him. A slave. Richie was a slave, his body in the control of others. His concerns and wants ignored. His fears and dreams of no consequence. About to be sold. Used. Abused. His worth reduced to an amount of money, based on how well he could give pleasure to others...or how much they could wring from him.

A slow, steady drip of saliva irritated his throat. The ball gag stretched his jaw wider than he thought possible. Lips pulled tight against the bright red rubber, sealing the orifice shut. And the leather straps cut into the sensitive corners, a particular pain he found he welcomed. Hell, he'd had so many objects thrust down his throat, flesh or plastic or *vibrating*, it almost seemed empty not to have something stuffing his face.

His neck and wrists chaffed as he fought the stocks. Trapped. Unable to free himself, to be himself. *NO* he wanted to scream, but even his voice had been taken from him. No one to save him, no one to care about him. Except his one friend in the world, who he had unwittingly given over to their hands. Who probably hated him now.

One last group passed in front of him, a crowd of four guards manhandling a struggling slave. With a shock, Richie recognized Duncan as the one being marched deeper into the room. Cattle prods sizzled each time the Highlander resisted, fighting against the manacles and guards. At one point, MacLeod fell to his knees, dragging his captors with him. A brief struggle occurred and the Scot ended on top, pulling at the chains trapping him.

Richie groaned, a muffled shout. But Duncan looked right through him, ignoring him, not giving a single sign of recognition. A guard attacked the Scot from behind, dropping him into the writhing mass of bodies. After an endless moment as all four prods dug into the thrashing Highlander's skin, Duncan limply lay on the carpet, unconscious.

The guards easily carried the helpless Immortal to a large X-frame in the center of the room. They lifted the unmoving form against it, stretching out each arm and leg until the Scot's muscular body was tied tightly in place. Bound, MacLeod still looked the warrior, a tiger in a cage but no less dangerous. Not at all like the others here. Not even like Richie. Naked, restrained and unconscious, Duncan MacLeod proved more of a man than Richie ever would be.

The Highlander had been fighting them every step of the way since his capture, not giving in, not giving up his freedom, his honor, his soul. The stubborn Scot would die, even horribly and painfully, before relenting. Richie knew he didn't have the strength to do that, had been deluding himself all these years, basking in the radiance of MacLeod and thinking he was that way too. What a fool he had been....

I am a slave, Richie accepted, as his eyes watered over. He couldn't focus on the bound Scot, but the sight would be forever burned in his memory. That was the gulf eternally separating them, not age, training or commitment. Duncan would always win, he would always fail.

The truth settled in his stomach like a lead weight, causing a sick feeling to wash over his cold, clammy skin. Disgusted, he turned his eyes away, unable to bear watching what she had planned for such a proud, strong man. The tears came, unable to purge the shame and disgust Richie felt for himself.

I have no soul.

The phase spun wildly in the echoes of his thoughts. He should have realized it, a long time ago. Fate had taken his first mother, leaving him alone for the first, though not last, time. No one had kept him for long, although a few tried with smiles and love. But those things never worked for Richie, ever, and now he understood why. He had tried to be normal, when he should have looked inside and seen the worthlessness of it all. Never should have fought his foster brothers. Never should have run away from here.

They would have shown him his place, taught him what he needed to know to serve them. They would have cared for him and protected him from all those who could never understand what he was, what his purpose was. But even if they couldn't understand, they knew. Everyone eventually figured it out at some point. And sent him away.

He could still hear the children on the playground, taunting him, only their words had mutated into another chorus. "Trick or treat, smell my feet, give us something good to eat. Richie's sweet, pinch his cheek, take back what he begs to keep. Liar, cheat, piece of meat. Show your dick and watch him eat...."

The sudden shock of a cold finger roughly sliding into his anus ripped him from his musings. He tried to jerk upright, only to painfully struggle against the stocks that held him motionless. "Mmmmmm" he grunted through the ball gag as he wiggled, trying to pull off the twisting invader.

A hand reached between his thighs and harshly grasped his balls, causing a blinding shot of pain to erupt from his guts. Terrified, Richie froze, letting the finger finish its examination. The hand and finger disappeared at the same moment, and then another finger took its place.

Richie found himself surrounded by bodies, looking at him, watching him. Pricing him and what he had to offer. The crowd trickled by and made the room hot and stifling. The men in their suits or tuxes and the women in designer dresses mingled around the naked slaves, drinking champagne and commenting on the "merchandise." Eventually, Richie no longer flinched when a strange hand caressed his prominently displayed buttocks. He no longer cried when a digit slid into his quivering ass. Only a muffled moan escaped through the ball gag.

The slaves he could see experienced the same humiliation of being fondled and examined. Most had been restrained in awkward positions that forced their genitals on display for inspection. All of them were repeatedly stroked to give the customers a better understanding of their size and weight. A meat market, in the most perverted form of the words.

Several times during the night, through a break in the crowds, Richie managed to glimpse the Highlander across the room. The Scot struggled, still bound to the frame, his naked body stretched tautly on display. A bit gag forced between his lips and black studded collar complimented the leather thongs that crisscrossed his penis and balls, keeping him erect and preventing ejaculation. All evening the crowd, especially the women, teased him unmercifully. The laughter as MacLeod struggled against the ropes echoed in Richie's ears.

"Your friend's in for a rough night," a female voice whispered in his ear suddenly. *Her.* Fingers brushed through his sandy curls. "He's not for sale, he's the entertainment," she went on to explain. "His cock's coated with a nerve blocker, so even with all the stimulation, he can't cum." She giggled at the thought. "Maybe he'll get with the program just to get off. Or maybe he's not as cheap as you are, Richard."

Throughout the evening, people gathered to watch the Highlander being stroked for a few minutes, sending him closer and closer to the edge. Sweat coated MacLeod's body, glistening from the overhead lights. His head thrashed during the unending torment. Several women ran hands over his taut chest and abs, or hefted his genitals. The crowd erupted into laughter and moved away, leaving the Scot to his torment in private.

Richie watched helplessly as Duncan fought the ropes, a trapped animal cruelly tortured. He saw the pain-filled eyes, pleading silently to the crowd for an end. Everyone that passed the young Immortal mentioned the "stallion" on display, reveling in the pure agony radiating from the Highlander.

A twinge of shame ripped through Richie's soul. Such a proud man, a valiant warrior, reduced to plaything and amusement. Nobility forgotten, pain and degradation given in heaping measure. The sight captivated him, the bound man thrashing in agony and unable to respond or stop the torment. Richie looked away, ashamed he found the sight arousing. He ached to taste the sweaty skin, to breath the musky scent of his tortured mentor. Oh, god, he was *enjoying* it....

Just when Richie thought Duncan could stand no more, the lights dimmed, leaving the bound Scot in a white spotlight. He glistened like fine crystal, his black hair matted to his scalp and body. His head shook side to side, begging for rest.

*She* came forward as the crowd noise faded to silence. Everyone seemed interested in what came next. She wore a leather outfit, revealing in all the proper places, and paused in front of MacLeod.

"Stallions are meant to be *ridden!*"

Her hand passed in front of Duncan's face, giving him a look at what she brought him. From across the room, Richie could tell what she held. A milky white cream. Her hand grasped his hard cock, red and glistening from hours of abuse. She jerked him off, rubbing whatever on his straining shaft.

The scream built slowly, echoing in the large hall. Duncan threw his head back as she continued to fondle him. His body shook with small tremors that sent sweat droplets flying into the gathered crowd.

The sound grew louder as the tremors increased in severity. Two people near Richie mentioned "wintergreen oil" and "burning sensations." The Highlander thrashed as much as the ropes allowed him, his head bouncing from side to side as an inhuman howl forced its way past the bit between his lips.

Several people in the audience groped themselves, eyes never straying from the spotlighted spectacle. Moans joined MacLeod's screams as the tension increased. Richie's own cock strained in arousal as he watched the torture of Duncan.

At the high point of pain, the Mistress impaled herself on the rigid shaft, plunging down to the hilt. Her cry of ecstasy or pain mingled with the Highlander's cries. He seemed a raging bull, thrashing against the X-frame as she rode out his struggles. Each thrust mirrored a cry from both as they settled into a demented rhythm.

The erotic tension in the room overwhelmed everyone. Several men openly jerked themselves and couples ground against each other as the Mistress hellishly rode the bucking Immortal. The gasps rose in pitch and intensity as she neared climax. Spittle dripped from Duncan's gagged mouth as his head jerked around, lost in the mindless fucking he participated in.

Fascinated, Richie watched each thrust. Each plunge. Heard each moan, each cry, echoing in his mind. The pair fought on, riding closer, nearer to a climax. A wild, writhing animal of two bodies, caught in the eternal thrashings of sex.

Her wail pierced Richie to his core as she gripped the Highlander tightly, each muscle locked rigidly in place. She ground against MacLeod, augmenting his own struggles. The scream dissolved slowly as she relaxed, sliding off the sweaty form still unable to reach climax. The crowd sighed in relief, all except Duncan. Denied an end to his arousal, he fought against the ropes. His mindless scream echoed in the stillness, fighting vainly for freedom.

They left him there, thrashing and moaning, and dispersed back to their little clumps around the other slaves. Richie still heard the whimpers from the gagged Highlander minutes later as the auction began in one corner. The sounds broke his heart, watching his friend still left with a roaring hard-on. Duncan's eyes never left his own cock, as if he'd find release by will power alone. The tremors that wracked MacLeod muscular body, the pain evident even from across the room, sent a wave of humiliation through Richie. And an equally powerful rush of arousal.

* * *

 

"Sold to the Hellfire Club for twenty thousand dollars."

The words washed over Richie's consciousness as he waited behind the stage curtains, lost in a haze of desire. He stood with his arms outstretched, frozen there by Marcus' orders. Several hands ran slowly over his naked skin, smoothing out the warm oil they lavished on his body.

A finger circled the young Immortal's hard right nipple, teasing a groan from his lips. Other hands stroked his thighs and buttocks, gliding over the slick pale flesh. His head thrown back, eyes closed, Richie trembled from the stimulation. Not even in high school had he been felt up this thoroughly.

His cock jutted rock hard from sandy curls, drops of pre-cum mixing with the scented oil as they stroked the shaft. His knees shook the closer he came to climaxing. But the hands disappeared suddenly, leaving him in need.

"Noooo...."

Marcus' snicker echoed softly as another slave marched on the stage for sale. Hands fitted Richie's genitals with a cock and ball harness, guaranteed to keep the young man trapped at his sexual peak.

The Mistress sauntered over, running her fingers over Richie's straining flesh. "You look...totally fuckable," she whispered in his ear. To the others she announced, "we'll save this one for last."

Richie didn't care. He soaked in the erotic feelings the oil and massage had started. He whimpered, clear liquid seeping from his straining rod. "Please..." he begged.

"You will walk out on stage and turn around twice, ending with your back to the bidders," the Mistress continued, ignoring his plea. "You will then bend over and grab your ankles. If you speak, you will be gagged. If you move, you will be strapped into position. If you disobey any of my orders...." She left the threat hanging, giving his balls a final hard squeeze. As she walked back to the stage, she beckoned for the next slave to follow.

Marcus slipped behind Richie, grabbing a handful of curly hair and pulling the Immortal backwards until his body ended up painfully arched. "Pretty boy's gonna get fucked. Then *I* get you."

The hands resumed their stroking as the auction continued, keeping Richie primed and ready. Finally, no more slaves waited for sale, just the Immortal. "Come," the Mistress beckoned to him.

Slowly, aware of his balls trapped awkwardly between his thighs, Richie walked out into the bright lights. Her hand guided him to the front, where several spotlights shone on his glistening body. A gentle shove made him turn, and careful to follow her instructions, he circled around twice.

Like a prize filly, he exhibited himself to the crowd hidden in the darkness. He could feel their eyes on his body, drinking in his aroused state. Reaching the end of his turn, he bent over like Duncan had taught him years ago, methodically easing down each vertebra.

The noise from the crowd swelled as he finished the move, grasping his ankles and throwing his ass outwards. The Mistresses' hands fondled each buttock, skimming lightly as she highlighted his wares. "Such a handsome stud, ladies and gentlemen. Unbroken. Virginal. Such a delight on the eyes. Who will be the one to teach this young man his place? A once-in-a-lifetime offer, ladies and gentlemen." As she finished, her fingers brushed through the cleft between his asscheeks, stroking his hidden bud. The stimulation caused a moan to come unbidden from his lips.

"See? Such a responsive boy...who will take him in hand and show him the joys of servitude tonight? I'll open the bidding at $10,000."

In the bustle that followed her price, Richie wavered, almost falling to his knees. Ten *thousand* dollars? She though he was worth that *much?* His head spun as the bidding started, the price jumping to twenty, thirty, thirty-five thousand. The roar from the crowd, eager for *his* ass, made him even harder as the sweat dripped off his forehead. The strain of being frozen in the awkward position, the better to highlight the merchandise, grew as the price rose.

"Fifty thousand? Thank you, Eugene. I see you all agree this colt is of *prime* stock. Richard, reach behind and pull your buttocks apart, so these nice people can see your freshly shaved ass."

The Mistress' command caught the young Immortal unaware. Quickly, fearing her wrath, he reached back and did as she instructed. He blushed, unseen by the audience, as he revealed what he considered a private place. No longer sacred, no longer under his control. Auctioned off. The shame made him even harder.

A renewed frenzy of bidding followed the revelation. At one point, the price jumped so high the crowd fell silent. One voice, a husky contra-alto, floated across the sudden calm. "Really, Eugene...why would you waste such good money on him? Even his cherry ass *can't* be tight enough to do you any good. Why, it'd take a magnifying glass to find that tiny dick of yours."

Looking between his aching legs, Richie saw a man in the crowd bluster. A pudgy, slobbering man that made his stomach churn. Letting that ugly bastard.... Even just the though of being taken by someone like that made the bile rise in his throat. Only the threat of pain and further humiliation kept him from throwing up on the stage.

"One hundred thousand," the woman added as the laughter died down.

No one raised the bid. No one breathed.

Pleasure echoed in the Mistress' voice as she called out, "Sold, for one hundred thousand dollars." Richie found himself speechless. So much money, more than he had ever seen in his life. Even Duncan.... His mind slammed to a halt at the thought of the Highlander. Even *Duncan* wouldn't waste that much money on him.

"Come," the Mistress ordered, giving Richie's hair a yank to pull him upright. Subdued, still in shock, the young Immortal followed her out into the crowd. Faceless people groped him as he walked, pinching his ass, swiping at his aching cock. To his surprise, they seemed satisfied that he would be worth the price.

Richie found himself pleased at the thought, almost prancing as he walked toward the woman who bought his virginity. He stopped, his nipples crinkling as he saw the one who bid so much. She was "drop-dead gorgeous" as he used to say. A throb from his groin mirrored his almost silent gasp.

Long, flowing brown hair framed a small, delicate face. Her eyes flashed as they settled on his naked form, turning from gray to green and back again. Her finger crooked delicately, drawing him forward. "Hello, handsome," she beckoned, reaching down to grasp his rock-hard prick and pull him close.

"He's a prize," the Mistress added as the woman stroked his chest, teasing the slicked mat of hair into abstract patterns. "But really, Suzanne, it seems extravagant, even for you. I know how you like stuffing them with dildoes and balls and candles and...."

Suzanne. Her name was Suzanne. Richie gasped and rocked on his feet as fingernails pinched his sensitive nipples hard, then stroked them gently to soften the pain.

"He's not for me," the husky voice answered as the fingers moved down and scraped across his hard cock and bound balls, sending shivers of pain/pleasure through his trembling body.  "I want to see him ride that magnificent stallion you have on display."

Even as she said it, the mental image formed on the back of Richie's closed eyelids.  With a yelp of surprise, his eyes shot open, the sight of Duncan filling his vision.  The rock-hard steel shaft rising from the bush of black curls, the heavy hanging balls....

_...as they pressed against the glass blocks.  "Holy *shit,*" Richie exclaimed aloud, stunned to find the Highlander's soapy body humping the shower wall.  While Richie considered the glass facing the dining area a free peep-show -- and there had been *much* discussion on the subject when he first moved in -- only fuzzy details could usually be made out.  Then again, no one plastered their body against that particular side of the stall._

_He could make out the Highlander's hard nipples and the spread of soapy black hair across the pectorals that trailed down the Scot's stomach.  And he didn't think those blocks had a label warning that objects might appear bigger...._

_A groan, barely muffled by the walls and water spray, reached the young man's ears.  Quickly, Richie turned away.  He looked at the kitchen, wondering if he should forget about lunch and just return to the shop for a while.  Another groan echoed behind him.  Damn it, this was *his* home as well._

_He marched to the refrigerator, getting out the ham and lettuce.  Each noise from the bathroom sent a shiver down his spine as he collected the items for a sandwich.  He could just imagine Duncan under the hot, steamy water, grasping a rock hard shaft with *both* hands._

_Trembling fingers placed the layers of fixings automatically as Richie unconsciously rubbed his growing crotch against the counter.  MacLeod's head would be thrown back, eyes closed.  Scottish legs quivering, tense muscles clenched under the strain.  A warrior welding his sword in the most primitive way, heart racing, breath faster._

_In a daze, Richie reached over for the knife, butting furiously against the counter.  He stopped himself, chastising his overactive hormones.  But it proved difficult to rid himself of the mental image of the Highlander in the shower.  The idea made Richie hot under the collar.  "Oh, yeah," he whispered breathlessly, the knife poised in his hand forgotten._

_"Richie?"_

_Duncan's question echoed in the silent apartment.  With a start, Richie flinched, dropping the knife in his shock.  It cracked against the plate, adding to his embarrassment.  He looked over his shoulder, eyes open wide in fright, to see MacLeod standing just outside the hallway opening._

_Clad only in a white towel wrapped loosely around his waist and clutched in a hand, the Highlander's form sparkled with water droplets.  Concern warmed his features as he repeated the word, now even more of a question.  "Rich?"  He took a breath, his firm pectorals rippling in a way that made Richie's heart stop.  "What's wrong?"_

_"Nothin'," Richie quickly replied, turning abruptly back to his sandwich and picking up the knife in a death grip.  Just abso-fucking perfect.  Maybe if he didn't look up, Duncan would just leave and give him enough time to sneak back to the shop.  Maybe if he didn't say anything, Duncan would forget it happened and concentrate on making Tessa's return home from Chicago perfect.  Maybe he could eventually forget what Duncan looked like, pressing against the shower._

_A throat cleared, bringing him back to reality.  He carefully looked back over his shoulder, knowing that if Duncan still had that blasted towel on, Richie would not be responsible for his actions._

_The Scot wore a pair of sweatpants, clinging to thighs from the haphazard wet spots, an obvious bulge right *there* where Richie could still make out the uncircumcised penis nestled against full, heavy balls.  And that chest, that gloriously perfect chest still bare, still sparkling with water droplets.  Shoulders framed by a full, black mane of hair no longer plastered to olive gold skin.  Better than the skimpy towel, but no better at quelling the surge of lust he felt._

_As his manhood swelled in his jeans, he focused on the plate and sandwich.  He needed to say something light and witty.  "Just about to die from hunger here."_

_Duncan just stared at him across the counter, waiting._

_There was no way he could look Duncan in the eyes after such a stupid comment.  Plate in one hand, soda can in the other, he made a quick retreat across the apartment.  "There's enough left for another sandwich if you want."  Once alone, on the other side of the room, he veered to the front door, hoping to escape what had the makings of being a very embarrassing situation._

_"Rich?  Where are you going?"  Duncan stepped out around the corner, his voice stopping Richie in his tracks.  Caught like a deer in the headlights._

_"Um, trying not to air-condition the Pacific Northwest as you keep reminding me," he replied, using his foot to shut the door he had left open when he walked in.  Richie didn't know if he could stay and not *do* something or *say* something or heaven forbid, break down and gush every single fantasy into the Highlander's startled face.  Like a dejected puppy after his doggy door had been nailed shut, he shuffled back to the sofa and sat down._

_"Are you all right?"  The soft, concerned voice Duncan used seemed almost unfair as he sat next to him on the couch._

_Richie could smell the Highlander, fresh from the shower and free of artificial scents.  Feel the heat from the hand clasping his shoulder.  Shudder at the soft brogue tickling his ear as his cock jumped to attention.  He was *not* going to *come* from MacLeod's touch._

_"Do you want to talk about it?" the Highlander asked._

_Talk about it?  If I open my mouth it will be pressing into your crotch and how can I stop myself when you sit there all hard and muscular and exotic looking and infinitely beautiful and you better take your hand off my shoulder before I ravish you right this fucking minute...._

_Duncan's hand flinched off Richie as if it had suddenly been burned.  For a second Richie panicked that he might have actually said something.  But the hand didn't turn into a fist and slug him, nor did the Highlander flee.  "Do you want me to get Tessa on the phone?" MacLeod asked instead._

_"No, I....  You were...."  His eyes wavered toward the shower.  Courage gone, Richie just leaned over his knees, resting his face in his hands._

_Duncan sat back on the couch, looking anywhere but at Richie.  "I'm sorry you had to...witness that.  I'm usually not that...public...and...and I didn't think what might happen.  The possibility you might just walk in here...."  Richie choked down a cry, unable to take the *pity* of all things that the Highlander felt.  "Not that you don't have every right to walk in here, it *is* your home...."_

_Richie cut him off.  "That's not it...it's...it's....  Oh, fuck!"  And *that* was exactly the problem.  He leaned forward to rise, thought better of it -- after all, if he started pacing then Duncan would probably grab him in a hug and then he'd lose it completely, ejaculate right in his face *then* and *there* -- and sat back against the sofa with a huff._

_I've got to look at him, Richie chided himself.  Nothing's happened, nothing's been done.  If I just look at him.  "Mac, really, it's...."  And found himself lost in a pool of dark chocolate eyes, sparkling with worry and concern.  His panic melted, his insides dribbled into a pile of goo.  His breath audibly whispered past frozen lips and he knew he was about to start crying, sobbing uncontrollably._

_A hand slipped behind his curly hair, cushioning his head, keeping him from turning away or looking down.  Pulling him closer to the drop-dead-georgeous object of his inflamed desire.  Duncan, in a rare moment of insight, smiled.  Or maybe anyone that was four hundred years old would have noticed, seen it in his eyes.  "I didn't know," MacLeod admitted softly.  "I'm sorry...."_

_Like it was all the Highlander's fault.  "No, Mac, it's my problem.  It'll be better if I just move out."_

_MacLeod shook Richie's head gently, adding a small chuckle.  "Would you let me finish a sentence?"  Richie shut up, but he couldn't make himself look Duncan in the eyes again.  "I'm *sorry* I can't give you what you want.  If Tessa and I...."  The warrior faltered for a moment.  "Tessa and I are exclusive.  I won't cheat on her, with anyone.  But I can only decide for *myself* -- not for you or anyone else.  Live and let live, I say."_

_It was almost too much to hope for.  "You mean you don't mind that...well, I'm attracted to men?  To *you*?"_

_"Truthfully, Rich?  I'm flattered.  Thank you."  MacLeod's hand retreated back to his side.  "I don't mind being admired, especially by a good friend.  I'm not afraid for my masculinity.  And just in case you wondered, I *have* had my share of attractions to men.  But since nothing will never, *ever* happen between us...."  He waited for Richie's silent nod.  "Then look to your heart's content.  And don't be ashamed to..." His head nodded to Richie's bedroom, right behind the brick wall.  "...you know."_

_"Mac!"_

_The Highlander smiled a rare, goofy grin that made Richie's heart flutter uncontrollably.  Duncan stood, looking down at him, bending over to whisper conspiratorially in his ear.  "Sometimes, when I'm in bed alone, I think about *you*...."_

 

* * *

 

_Later that night, alone and naked in his bed, Richie reached down and grabbed his hard cock.  Jerking it with his eyes closed, he imagined Duncan naked in the other room, handling his hard rod, eyes closed as well.  Picturing *Richie* naked in his bed, jerking off...._

_He fancied he heard a moan through the brick wall their rooms shared -- he always heard Duncan and Tessa when they got...active.  A moan he echoed as his muscles spasmed, his hand speeding up.  So close.  They both neared the blessed relief.  Another moan, another jerk, his legs tightening as his other hand pinched his nipple hard, just like Duncan did in his mind._

_"Oh God, yes!"  Too close to pull back, he plunged headlong into the orgasm, his body thrashing as his mind and organ exploded with the white of..._

...the lights that circled Duncan's body.  The Mistress pulled Richie closer, letting him see his friend's body writhing on the X-frame.  The two Immortals' eyes met.  Duncan's held fear and pain, all pouring into the young man before him, searing into Richie's brain.  He gasped, only the Mistress' strong grip in his hair keeping him from doubling over into a ball.

"Prepare him," she ordered as Richie's eyes filled with tears.  He'd never seen MacLeod so lost before.  Helpless, like an animal caught in a trap.  He watched as the guards greased the Highlander's rock-hard shaft, causing him to struggle harder against the ropes, a muffled moan coming from the bit-gagged mouth.

The guards easily manhandled Richie around, releasing him from the tortured gaze.  Arms lifted him, carrying him backwards, spreading his unresisting thighs as they set him down, impaled him on the most rigid spike available.  He cried out sharply at the  pain as he felt Duncan's hard shaft forced through the tight ring of muscle.  The guards holding his arms laughed as gravity drew him down, pushing the cock further into his protesting hole.  "God, stop!" he screamed, sure that Duncan's erection would tear his body in two.

"You're praying to the wrong person," the Mistress pointed out.  She motioned to the guards, each man grabbing one of his arms and controlling his descent, drawing it out.  Someone nearby tittered as each inch slowly slid in.  Nothing in Richie's past could have prepared him for this moment.  The moment his best friend violated his body.

It felt like ages of torment before the guards jerked his wrists apart and high, stretching his chest just as he inhaled to scream again.  Everything hurt.  He could even feel the sharp pain as they tied his wrists to Duncan's, binding him to the X-shaped cross.

His feet found the floor, a spark of hope through the blinding agony.  He could stand, keeping the Highlander's cock from impaling him any more.  "No more," he begged.  "No more."  His words barely louder than the labored breathing of both Immortals.

Duncan's head nuzzled his neck, a soft murmur to calm him slipping between the bit gag in the Highlander's mouth.  He could feel the wetness on his friend's face, whether from sweat or tears he didn't know.  Glad that he couldn't see MacLeod's eyes, ashamed that his teacher had suffered because of him.  And now to be a part of this torture.

The guards bent down, grabbing his legs and ripping them open as savagely as snapping a wishbone.  His only purchase taken away, he slid down the length of Duncan's shaft, embedding the hard cock in his protesting ass.  They tied his ankles to the bottom of the cross, binding him to Duncan's legs, stretched further apart than he thought possible.

His scream rent the air, a high pitched cry of pain.  Limbs tried to curl into a ball, protect his vulnerable body, but the restraints held him spread.  Open.  Displayed.

"Gag him," the Mistress ordered.  The guards complied, stuffing his mouth with a large ball gag, tying it off behind his head.  His protests muffled, the guards backed away, leaving him alone with the crowd.

Tremors wracked his body.  Richie found it impossible to breathe.  Every muscle and limb cried out in torment.  If felt as if his guts had been rearranged to make room for the invader.  He found little consolation knowing there could be nothing worse than this.

Penetrated.

Violated.

Because they wished it.

His gut tingled, slowly increasing in intensity until it ached.  The shaft inside of him had become a pillar of fire searing his tender innards.  He couldn't catch a breath, only a brief whimper before the pain forced the air from his lungs.

Eyes wide open in fright, he looked at the gathered crowd, knowing a fire burned in his stomach.  Why did they just stare at him?  No one did anything except watch.  All but the Mistress, coming closer with a jar in her hand.  The jar of cream they had used earlier on Duncan.  The one that *burned*.

Richie realized they had used the same stuff to ease his impalement, coating Duncan's cock liberally.  It ate away at his insides even now, causing the same torment to the Highlander.  He felt the solid chest sealed against his back, their sweat mingling, flesh sticking together.  Student and teacher suffered the same agony.

The Mistress reached out, her gloved hand holding a liberal amount.  Richie glanced down as she coated his own cock, surprised and startled to find himself rock hard.  It would be a repeat of earlier, only this time he would know the fear Duncan had.  The torment.  Only a matter of time.

Some part of his mind, still bent on self-preservation, forced him to pull himself up, to lift himself off the burning invader.  His chest spasmed from the effort, but slowly he slid higher, buoyed by the chance to be free of that one ache.

"No, you don't," the Mistress hissed, grabbing him by his bound testicles and dragging him down again.  The flash of agony made him scream, full of frustration as each painful inch rammed home.  He could lower himself no further on the hard cock but still she pulled.  Until his and the Highlander's balls had been wrapped together, tied into a large mass, molded them into one being forged by pain.

Both men grunted at the agony.  Each time Richie struggled to get away, Duncan thrust to protect his genitals, plowing impossibly deeper into Richie's guts.  Each jab brushed against his inflamed prostate, sending waves of pleasure through his body.  Pleasure identical to the pain he felt.  Pleasure, pain; he had no idea if he could tell them apart any more.

He wanted to pass out -- hide in unconsciousness.  *She* wouldn't allow it.  He hissed as she coated his hard nipples with the cream, already aware his cock throbbed with more than arousal.  Soon his body felt thrust in an imaginary torch flame.  His genitals, nipples and gut all burned.

And still his cock stood erect, thrusting out from his groin.   Hair lay plastered to his body from sweat.  His flesh glistened, muscles in sharp relief from the agony.  And they watched him, the men stroking their cocks, the women either fingering themselves or using the available rubber toys.  Even Suzanne stared at him, lost in lust.  She enjoyed his torture.  She had *bought* his torture.

The woman came closer, running her hand over his taut chest, feeling the tense muscles, brushing the sensitive nipples.  She kissed his neck, sending shivers through his straining torso.  Slowly, her hand guiding him, she lowered herself on his erect manhood.  Already wet with her juices, she settled against him, engulfing his burning shaft.

Richie lifted away from MacLeod, fighting the ropes.  The sensation of tightness all around his throbbing rod added to the myriad of sensations.  Too much.  He moaned as she lifted to her toes, rising off of him, only to slide back with a groan of her own.  Restrained, he could do nothing, in no way affect the slow ride she took.

Up, down.  Again and again.  Richie felt his heart would burst in the next second, only to find another level she could take him.  A moment later she shuddered, giving in to her orgasm, relaxing against his taut body.  Only to start again seconds later, driving him further but still denying him relief.

By the time Suzanne came a third time, Richie sobbed in pain, no longer able to fight the sensations.  He wanted...no, needed to come.  To find release.  She smiled at him, grabbing his short hair in her fists and taking him deep, surrounding him tightly.  He slipped past the line of agony to ecstasy, crashing head first into the most powerful ejaculation he had ever felt.  His body thrashed helplessly in the ropes, Suzanne riding each jerk, moaning with abandon as his writhing brought her another orgasm.  An eternity later it ended, leaving him breathless.

She walked away, finally sated, giving his abused nipples a hard tweak before disappearing into crowd.  Leaving him empty.  Drained.  Limp.

The Mistress approached with the jar again, smiling.  Her fingers brushed his tender manhood, stroking him again until he hardened under her ministrations and the burning cream.  He knew there would be no mercy as she slid onto him, riding him as the other woman had done.  Gaining satisfaction from him without giving anything in return.  She bit his neck as she came the first time, clamping her limbs around him, shuddering in her pleasure.

An empty feeling for him, now.  How many women had he held after sex?  Shared pleasure?  Kristen had shown him the wonders of the universe.  These people showed him his place in that universe.

Strangers watched him as the two women alternately pleasured themselves with him.  Laughed as he groaned and struggled as another orgasm ripped through him.  Watched as Duncan futilely tried to use his body for release.  Enjoyed his growing humiliation as the Highlander painfully raped him, in and out, in and out.  Over and over until the act held no more meaning.

Still, they did not release him.  From the ropes or the sexual frenzy.

Later, after hours had passed, he felt Duncan tremble violently, waking him from the fuzzy nothingness he had floated in.  Darkness surrounded the pair as stifling as any blindfold.  Muffled grunts from gagged mouths the only sound.  The heat from their bodies, pressed together in bondage.  The slow, painful sliding of cock in his abused ass.

Duncan shuddered again, thrusting deep.  His body curved into an arch as the Highlander pushed uncomfortably forward.  A strangled cry slipped past the bit gag, echoing in the silent room.  It felt like the end of the world.

They collapsed back again the x-frame, Richie feeling the hot semen drip down his splayed thighs even as the hard shaft inside him softened, shriveled.  Leaving him painfully aroused, but no longer impaled.  The shaft had no room to slip out, bound as they had been.  Still connected, still together.

Richie fell asleep that way, only to awake later to the slow, grinding thrust of Duncan's hardening cock.  Still surrounded by darkness and silence, he shivered as MacLeod used his body to orgasm again.

The guards came much later, untying the ropes and letting his limp body crash to the floor.  "I heard this guy was a big hit last night," one of the gruffer guards pointed out to his companion.  A hand reached out, caressing an asscheek.  "Think we'll get a taste of it now, boss?"

Richie moaned involuntarily as a finger jabbed roughly into his tender ass, exploring the abused cavity.  He heard the sound of slapping flesh, and the intruder slipped quickly out.

"You *know* she said hands off, Larson."  Someone lifted him upright, supporting him at his waist.  "When he becomes available, I'm sure Marcus will be the first in line...not you."

They half-carried him down the corridors as Richie tried to wake up from his daze, relieved that his ordeal seemed to be over.  He heard a cell door open, then they eased him down to the cement floor of his familiar room.

A hand shook his shoulder.  "Better get some rest.  It's already tomorrow, and I'm sure there are big things planned for you still."  A blanket landed next to him.  "I'll have the kitchen prepare you something to eat, you'll probably need it."

Richie didn't move after the door closed, content to rest on the floor under the harsh lights for a moment.  He felt worse than after one of Duncan's afternoon workouts.  Thinking of the Highlander made his mind replay the last several hours, instead he quickly focused ahead, at what the guard told him.  More to do.  Always the next day and the next.  Be prepared for everything.

Only the disgusting thought of how rank and dirty he'd feel later made him struggle to sit up instead of turning over and falling instantly asleep on the hard concrete.  Semen, sweat and the still-remembered cream coated his skin.

He barely made it to the corner with the shower head, letting the cold, icy water cascade over his tired flesh.  Not bothering to soap or wash his hair, he let the spray pound the sweat and aches from his body, wishing his shame and the pain could be dealt with as easily.  His hands brushed his skin, feeling the cool liquid soothe his sensitive areas, taking with it all the hurt and the grime with it.

Soon, his need for rest overrode his need for cleanliness, and he sloppily dried off, almost crawling over to the sleeping mat before his eyes finally shut.  He saw Duncan's helplessness, saw the crowd's slobbering interest.  Heard the cries and the moans.  Felt the skin, the heat, the coarse ropes.  Too exhausted to do more than pull the light blanket over himself, he wished with all his heart things had been different.  Between him and Duncan.  If they'd ever talked about it after Tessa's death.  If he ever felt safe enough to ask for one last favor.  To ask for...

**_*snore*_ **

..."Mac?" Richie called out after the elevator gate finished its metallic squeal.  He looked around the loft apartment, sure he felt an Immortal.  Tentatively, he stepped into the room, brandishing the bottle of wine like a bat.  "Mac?" he called again.

"Be out in a sec," a loud voice echoed from the partially open bathroom door.  MacLeod's strong voice.  The one that complimented MacLeod's possibly naked buff body...

Richie stepped into the kitchen, hoping the sink island would hide his growing erection.  Several times in the past Duncan had appeared out of that room in various states of undress.  Most had weaseled their way into his fantasies.  The Highlander seemed so unconcerned around Richie -- undressing, lounging in nothing more than a robe.  "I wonder if he...."

"What did you say?"

The young Immortal jumped, unaware he had spoken aloud.  "Nothing, Mac.  Why's it so dark in here?"  That's it, redirect the conversation.

The sink in the bathroom ran for a second before shutting off.  "I bought candles.  Could you light them, please?"

Great, it's another "let-me-show-you-how-we-did-things-in-the-seventeenth-century" nights.  I can't stand another round of haggis.  Quickly he lit the multitude of tallows placed around the loft.  The soft yellow glow gave the place an unearthly quality, but a homey feel.   It reminded Richie of Darius' church, lit by candles at night.  A warm, soft, rosy feeling.

He made it back to the kitchen, holding the chilled bottle of wine in both his hands.  It definitely felt like date night.  Richie had spent almost an hour in the bathroom after his afternoon workout, scrubbing every inch squeaky clean.  He settled for a tight white T-shirt, and a rarely worn pair of snug black jeans.  Not that much different from what he normally wore around Duncan.  Of course, in the clothes he normally wore around MacLeod he could *breathe.*  But his current hyperventilating might be more from nervousness than his fashion choices.

"You don't have to go through with this," he hissed to himself as he ran his hands up and down the cold bottle.  "Things could go on like they've always gone.  At least until I leave or he sends me away and we never speak to one another again."

But he didn't want things to go on, like this.  The lonely ache in his guts, the pounding of his heart in his chest.  His cold, clammy skin when he woke in the middle of the night, covered in his own semen.  Richie wanted an answer, either way.

Duncan shut the bathroom door loud enough to wake Richie from his ruminations.  "Sorry about taking so long."  The Highlander crossed over to the shelf with the stereo, his shirt glimmering from the candlelight.  Black, no olive, no...

Suddenly, Richie's mouth went dry.  Duncan MacLeod wore the black mesh shirt Amanda had sent him from Paris.  The one he only wore for her.  The one that made him look sleek, and animal, and sexy.  Like a panther, gliding across the floor of the loft, bathed in yellow light.

"Oh, god..."  the young Immortal moaned softly, the bottle slipping out of his hands and striking the kitchen island with a loud *thud.*  The sound drew MacLeod's attention momentarily, his eyes glancing Richie's way, hooded in shadow.  The soft sounds of light jazz suddenly filled the quiet room, seductive and breathless.  It all made sense, the candles, the extra primping, the *shirt.*  Amanda's coming to dinner.  Probably stepping out of the cab downstairs even now.  A "hello" supper before a "welcome home" fuck.  Just great.

"Gotta date?" Richie asked, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking.  He meant it as a sarcastic joke, his mouth rushing to hide his disappointment.  His mouth always came to his rescue.

The Highlander chuckled before turning Richie's way, a warm, dark, throaty laugh.  "Yeah."  He stood across the room, absently rubbing his stomach as his hips faintly swayed to the music.  An animal in his prime.  In heat.  Waiting for his mate.  With the soft light from the candles he looked...looked...almost a savage.  A highland barbarian.

Richie had learned when to cut his loses.  No need to spend another disastrous night playing third wheel.  He'd done enough of that with Tessa around.  Watching the pair flirt and tease through a meal and whatever seemed fun afterwards.  Not knowing quite when to leave, or to stay and watch, where the line from good manners changed to voyeuristic.  Not another night rushing home to jerk off in the shower and crawl into his cold bed alone.

"Well, Mac...you should'a called."  It hurt, some unnamed pain gripping his chest.  He left the bottle on the counter, briskly walking to the elevator, fighting back the tears he wouldn't shed.

"Richie!"

His hands fumbled for the gate pull, reaching above his head.  The light in the lift blinded him, shattering into a rainbow of colors.  "Give her...my best."

The gate started down and then stopped, held aloft by Duncan's arms stretched over his head.  Richie's gaze danced over the muscular chest that filled his vision, nipples visible through the mesh and hard as pebbles.  Acres of black hair scattered over rich olive skin.  Close enough to touch.  To lick....

"Where are you going?" the Highlander carefully asked, his rich baritone muted by concern.

Blinking hard, trying to focus, Richie backed away.  "Look, I don't want to interfere with Amanda's homecoming and all...."  His words chopped off as he backed into the elevator wall, no where else to go.  Trapped as the Highlander walked slowly into the car.

Hands gripped his shoulders, firm and tender.  A black, looming shadow blocked out the harsh light.  "Amanda's not coming over, Rich."

Arms in front of him, Richie tried push the Highlander away.  Only to end up with his hands curved around firm, hard pectorals.  Quickly, he let them dropped, wondering if his hands really had been burned or if he just imagined it.  "You said date.... You.... Who's all this for...?"

"You," Duncan laughed, giving the young Immortal a light shake.  "You're my date, tough guy."

Richie looked everywhere but at the Highlander.  "Oh."

Duncan smiled, a shy lift of his mouth.  "Come on, food's almost ready."

His mouth sputtered into action, filling in the silence so he wouldn't have to think with the first words his brain could string together.  "Smells good," Richie foolishly uttered, filling his nostrils with cologne and musk as the Highlander moved back to the kitchen.  He carefully followed, not ready for another close encounter just yet.

"So, you ready for some stroking off?" Duncan asked casually.

Caught unaware by the question, Richie froze, staring hard at the Highlander, knowing he couldn't be hearing what he just heard, knowing he'd finally lost all his marbles.  Maybe bolting down the stairs wasn't such a bad idea after all.  "What?" he finally sputtered incredulously, too shocked to do anything but stare.

Duncan stirred the pot on the stove.  "Stroganoff.  I decided to skip Amanda's recipe and try a new sauce.  Tell me what you think."  He dished up a spoon of mushroom gravy, holding out carefully to Richie.  "I can guarantee it tastes as good as it smells."

In an effort to keep from choking, Richie reached for the bottle of wine, uncorking it and quickly swallowing a mouthful.  "It's....  I mean.... That's not...." he sputtered as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  He froze when he saw Duncan watching him, the spoon still in his outstretched hand.

"I guess it's too hot," MacLeod said, placing the spoon back in the pot.  He busily wiped off the counter with a hand towel, looking anywhere but at Richie.

Setting the bottle down in front of the Highlander, the young Immortal rested his hand on the twitching arm, stilling it's motion.  "You know I like it hot."  He squeezed, resisting the urge to rub up and down the muscular limb.  "Just caught me by surprise, that's all.  I always eat anything you put in front of me."  Glad that he stood behind MacLeod as his face burned from the inadvertent word choice, he quickly busied himself with getting anything useful out of the cabinet drawers.

The Highlander brought a large bowl into the living area as Richie set down glasses, plates and silverware.  Soon, both men lay sprawled on the floor around the huge coffee table, Richie with his back to the sofa and Duncan leaning against a chair.  "My cooking's not that bad," the Scot commented absently after a bit, eying the generous quantity of food left in the bowl.

"Hmm?" Richie murmured, eyes glued to his wine, flicking out his tongue absently between his lips as he concentrated.  His fingers danced first over the crystal, toying with the condensation.

Duncan reached for his own glass, taking a long swallow before refilling it.  "You hardly ate anything," he pointed out, motioning to Richie's plate, still filled with his first helping.

The young Immortal winced as he looked up at his friend.  "Guess not."  His eyes dropped back to the dark liquid swirling in his glass.

"Would you like something else?  To eat?" MacLeod asked, leaning on the low table.

Richie's eyes flicked up sharply.  'Mac, I want to fuck your brains out right now on this coffee table...and then feel your hard cock pounding into my ass,' he wanted to blurt out.  "No," he choked, suddenly frightened and tense.  He felt stupid for thinking his crazy dreams had any merit.  He had to get away.  His arms tried to lever his body from the boneless lump it had settled into, but between the wine and empty stomach, he failed.  Stuck between the low table and sofa, he had no way to escape.

Duncan stood, stretching out stiff muscles.  "Then dance with me," he whispered, leaning over and offering Richie a hand.  The Highlander waited, calm and peaceful, a soothing smile on his lips.

Richie's instincts shouted 'RUN!'  But that hand looked so tempting, offered so much, if he just believed what he felt in his heart.  Unless his mind made up all the details, all the little things...all imaginary.

"I've never known you to pass up food before.  You're tense, nervous, and edgy.  You need to relax, and a nice slow tune will help."  Duncan's eyes showed more than concern.  Richie had to look away, afraid he imagined it.  Not that he ever spent much time gazing into MacLeod's brown eyes.  "Trust me," the Highlander whispered, not waiting for Richie, grabbing the young man's hand and gently pulling him to his feet.

Strong arms wrapped around his body, urging him away from the sofa, out to the open space between the furniture and the bed.  MacLeod reached backwards, pressing buttons on the CD, knowing the sequence by feel.  "Now...just relax."

A plaintive alto cried softly over piano accompaniment as Duncan slipped his hands around Richie's back, splaying fingers across his shoulders and lower back.  The warm Scottish body pressed closely again his torso, slowly weaving in time to the easy music.

Richie's breath caught, his body enveloped in a myriad of conflicting emotions.  But the steady swaying, the soft sounds from the speakers and the gentle touch of the Highlander's hands all overrode the frightened tremors.  Painlessly, the tension eased away, lost in the yellow candlelight, leaving his mind strangely empty.

Left, right, back and forth.  No where to go, no need to do anything but follow Duncan's lead.  No longer bursting with energy, Richie felt his head grow heavy, letting more and more of the weight rest easily on the Highlander's broad shoulder.  He could smell MacLeod so well like this, his nose buried in the crook of the neck.  Back and forth.

His breathing slowed, turning steady and deep.  His eyelids fluttered, the concentration needed to keep them open drifting away.  His hands rubbed the Scot's muscular back, ending up clasped together around Duncan's waist.

"That's it," the Highlander murmured in his ear.

A jazz tune breezed slowly by, taking all of Richie's worries and fear with it.  Muscles relaxed in the calm atmosphere, the slow rocking and flickering flames   "I love you," Richie whispered, his tingling lips brushing the dusky olive skin beneath them.

Hands tightened on his body, crushing him momentarily to Duncan's chest.  "Aye, lad.  I love yew too...." the older man breathed.  They stopped, pulling away just enough to look each other in the eyes.  Duncan's brown gaze burned gold and black in the candlelight as he searched Richie's face.

"Love me," Richie implored.  His nervousness reappeared, forcing him to look down.  Away.  Anywhere but at his friend.

Duncan's hands found their way to his face, cupping his cheeks and lifting his eyes once again.  "Rich..."  So many questions in one little word.  Cautious, unsure, needy and scared.

"Please," Richie moaned, less a sound than a breath.  His eyes watered.  Thumbs brushed the rivers of tears off his pale skin, but Duncan's eyes still held doubts.  "Teach me this one last thing..." he asked, no longer holding back his tears.

Ruby lips brushed glistening eyelashes before moving down and resting near Richie's mouth.  "Aye."  The Highlander's tongue skimmed his tingling lips, seeking an opening, wetting dried skin.  Richie welcomed him, rising on his toes to capture MacLeod's mouth with his own, his reply lost in small, hesitant nips.  Duncan sighed, pulling him closer, molding their bodies as their tongues danced together. Then words no longer existed between them.

It felt like an eternity before Richie had to breathe again.  He pulled away slightly, gasping for air.  His whole body tingled and only MacLeod's strong grip kept him on his feet.  Duncan's eyes bored into him, all the way to his soul, searching for any hesitation, any doubts.  Richie knew he had none, but couldn't find the words to ease his friend's fear.  He had no words at all.

"Wow."  Once again, his mouth to the rescue.  It sounded so stupid, but it brought a smile to the Highlander's face, concern melting to amusement.  The brown eyes twinkled as fingers brushed his chin.

"Yeah, wow," Duncan echoed.  The husky baritone made Richie's body shiver, not from cold but heat.  The loft seemed stifling and warm.  His pounding heart echoed loudly in his ears, throbbing so fast, so hard.  "You look hot," MacLeod commented.

Richie felt his face flush.  Cursed with pale skin and an overabundance of hormones.  He knew he sweated like pig, his musk mixing with Duncan's own, filling his nostrils and making his cock twitch with desire.  "I'm burning up."

"You *said* you liked it hot," Duncan murmured.  Crossing his hands in front of him, Duncan grasped the hem of his mesh shirt, pealing it off and shaking out his black mane of hair once he had pulled his head through the neck opening.  He tossed it over to his clothes hamper, turning back to Richie and letting the young Immortal drink his fill of the muscular body.  "Much better."

Hands brushed Richie's chest through the sticky T-shirt, tracing the curves and planes.  Fingers danced over his sensitive nipples, hard and visible through the cotton.  "Oh, God," Richie groaned involuntarily as his cock throbbed in his tight jeans.  Duncan's lips found the aching buds, alternating gentle licks and teeth scrapes until Richie's fingers gripped the long black hair and pulled the tormenting Highlander away.

Duncan slid his tickling fingers under Richie's waistband, sliding between the white cotton and the sweat-slicked skin.  Traveling up, pulling the shirt higher, revealing muscled abs and a fine mat of ruddy chest hair, they paused momentarily to circle Richie's aching titbuds, before slipping the garment off his head.

Skin to skin, they resumed their swaying, hands brushing and rubbing freely as they explored each other, hands visiting places only secretly glanced at before.  Wiry hair scraped Richie's sensitized nipples, causing him to shiver from the pleasure.  Mouths tasted any skin available.  Several times he felt he would collapse, but Duncan's strong arms cradled him, held him, fed him the strength and courage to continue.

All too soon Richie lay back on the bed, that oh-so-inviting bed that dominated the loft.  His jeans sat crumpled on the floor, lying next to Duncan's.  The Highlander lay over him, propped up by those massive, strong arms.  The large black mane of his hair fell forward, brushing against Richie's face.  Both men ached with need.  Duncan's unvoiced question glinted in his worried eyes, his lips crushed into a tight frown.  "I'm ready," Richie answered firmly, reaching up to draw his teacher, his lover down.

Hands silently urged him over, turning him onto his stomach, but he gripped MacLeod's arms hard, stopping the movement.  "No...I want to see you.  I have to see you...Duncan."  The word, the name of his friend he hardly ever used, burned in his heart and his lips and the Highlander nodded his understanding.

With surprising care, MacLeod lifted Richie's legs and rested them on his broad shoulders, reaching toward the nightstand for a tube of gel.  The position left Richie open for his ministrations.  "We'll take it slow.  Let me know if there's...."

"I'm fine," Richie interrupted, reaching out and grasping MacLeod's forearm in what he hoped the Highlander interpreted as reassurance.  Duncan just nodded, bending down to his task, opening the tube and spread gel on his forefinger.  The cold ointment startled the young man as Duncan's coated digit teased his tight bud.  "Oh, God!"

"Rich..." Duncan started.

Unable to stifle another gasp, Richie reached out and grabbed the bedding in his fist.  "Just don't stop, Mac."

MacLeod complied, adding another finger to the one already moving in and out.  When the Scot added a third, watching Richie writhe on the bed, arching his chest as strange waves coursed through his body.  Duncan leaned forward, folding Richie's legs over until his knees rested on his chest.  The Highlander's cock rested between his buttocks, his muscles open and ready.

Duncan thrust forward firmly, sliding his erect shaft into the slick, tight hole.  "Rich," he moaned, feeling his former student open for him, taking him in, gripping him hard as he punched deeper.  "Yes," he hissed, beginning a slow in and out rhythm.

Richie hissed too.  *Thrust*  It hurt.  Bad.  But the fact MacLeod caused it made it bearable.  And the fact that Duncan wanted him, needed him, made the pain something more.  Something welcome.  *Thrust* He moaned as the Highlander slid into him again, opening up places inside of him, bringing him to new levels of existence.  Alive.  *Thrust*  Finally alive after so many years of just living day to day.  *Thrust*  The world exploded into brilliance and color, punctuated by Duncan's grunts and lunges.

Alive.

Is this how Tessa felt, night after night?  Why she stayed, why she died?  Is this what...love felt like?  Closer and closer to God.  Closer and closer to life?  Closer and closer and closer and *closer*....

MacLeod howled above him, plunging deep, trembling with passion and lust.  His head thrown back, his shout echoing in the quiet, candle lit loft.  Claiming his lover, his mate.  Pounding him through the mattress until their bodies molded together as one.

Erupting himself, Richie jerked the sheets, every muscle in his body tense and straining.  It erupted from his balls, driving through his groin and the hot seed....

...burst out of his pounding fist, squirting onto his heaving torso. His body fell back to the mat, laying in a boneless sprawl.  Overwhelmed, he rested there, tangled up in the course blanket, letting his body cool down.  God, what a dream.

Everything ached.  He felt his semen drying on his sweat-glistening stomach.  Head pounding, body trembling, all he could focus on was the memory of the pain and humiliation of the earlier rape, a stark contrast to his idyllic dreams.  His tears fell unhindered down his rosy cheeks.

Richie cried for the loss of his virginity, his last remaining treasure.  For the loss of everything dear in his life.  No more hands brushing his hair, whispering French lullabies in his ear to help him sleep.  No more strong hands clasping his shoulder and the momentary glimpse under the mask of Highland Clansman to the concern and love underneath.  No more compassion, no more comfort...no more anything.

And that made everything hurt even more.


	4. The Mistress' Interlude

God, I hate accountants.

I hate the way everything comes out of their mouths in a foreign language, the way they nit-pick every damn nickel and *especially* the way I have to slip on a fucking dress to keep Archie from having a fucking coronary.

"Why don't you use the computer program I installed for you?" he whines.

Because I fucking hate the damn thing.  Reason enough for you, little man?

"I don't think canned whipped cream can be considered a business expense unless used in a certified food preparation facility....."

You have *no* fucking idea, Archibald Wiggins!

* * *

 

What a way to start a fucking Monday.  Once I slip out of that dreadful strapless dress, it goes back into the small closet in my office.  My hands run over the leather corset I wear underneath, reminding themselves of the feel.  Any normal business woman would go home after a meeting with Archie and beat the cat.  I, luckily, have much more interesting subjects to beat.

My finger glides over to the intercom button.  "Marcus, bring me...."  Who?  I feel angry and vindictive at the moment.  Paul?  No, he whines too much.  Screaming will not help this migraine.  Raoul, now that's an exotic creature -- but he's still recovering from Saturday night's festivities.  Oh, but the French beauty would certainly raise my spirits.  Something new is what I need.  Someone....

"Bring me Richard."

Silence.

I press the button again, in case of a malfunction.  "Marcus?  Did you hear me?"

Panting in the background comes from the speaker when I release the button.  "Yes, Mistress," he gasps.  Dear Marcus has been catting around again instead of waiting patiently for my wishes.  That boy is getting a little too big for those leather britches.  Aggression under his Mistress' direction is one thing -- down right dominant behavior is unforgivable in a slave.

One last order, in case my wishes are unclear.  "Unmarked, my dear.  I want him waiting in my office in pristine condition."

I don't wait for confirmation.  If so much as a scratch is on Richard's pale body, Marcus' head will roll.

Another press of the intercom brings Dominick and his handy coils of rope.  My choice is..."Black, I think."  While I am attending to bodily functions and maybe a turn through the kitchens -- now designated a "whipped cream storage facility" -- my tall Latin helper will take care of Richard for me.

"For his first session, Mistress, I suggest a tight posture wrap to keep him immobile...."

He stops at the shake of my head.  Not that for my Richard, or only as a punishment.  Young colts need guidance more than pure restraint.  "As little as possible for this one.  Ankles to thighs, wrists...and secure him to the floor.  We shall see how well he handles this first time."

Dominick clearly looks disappointed.  I am too, in a strange sort of way.  The thought of that beautiful, pristine body crisscrossed in tight black hemp.  Struggling.....

That mild fantasy will get me nowhere.  First the bathroom, then kitchen, and then, with a little distraction, an afternoon full of accounting.

God, I hate accountants.

* * *

 

Even from the back, he astounds me.  Or maybe just having him here, all to myself, with no plans, no goals, no "scripts."  I'm spending a lazy Monday seeing what could be.  So entranced am I at the smooth expanse of back, only broken by crossed wrists bound in black rope, that I ignore Marcus, leaning against the wall.  He too is staring at my treasure, only with less adoration than I.  A small riding crop dances in his hand, just waiting for a chance at the pale skin.

Well, colts *do* need a firm touch....

Richard sits on the carpet, legs underneath him.  The only position available with his ankles tied to their respective thighs, heels crushed into buttocks.  Nowhere to go with his testicles leashed to the small eyebolt in the floor specifically for this purpose.  Wrists tied behind him, leaving him nothing to do but squirm and writhe.  I like squirming and writhing.

His bowed head presents me with a sea of soft brown curls lengthening as the days go by.  I itch to feel my hands in those locks.  I resist.  It's much to early in the day for that.

Marcus steps away from the wall, as if he's only just noticed me in the room.  The whip slashes out, kissing the ridge of Richard's spine between his shoulder blades.  "Back straight, dog."  My treasure jerks upward to comply, but Marcus barely stops.  "Head up, eyes down."  A strike under what could be a defiant chin sends the curls quivering.  No longer a frightened boy, disoriented to be in my world again.  He has had time to find his backbone -- which I shall have to crush again.

"Thighs," I murmur as a reminder, aware that both men can easily hear me.  The word across my lips sends shivers down my body.

"Thighs!" Marcus echoes, slapping the whip at the exposed inner muscles.  Richard complies, his back now radiating tension and stress.  Maybe Marcus can be a *tad* overbearing.  Maybe Richard expected caresses and kisses from me.  He shall learn anew the kiss of the whip.

Maybe it's the residual pain I know still lingers, or maybe it's the rush of having an audience, but my treasure sits up straight -- ramrod straight -- and almost preens in his bondage.  I walk around this man-child, my hand grazing over his shoulder of its own volition.  Richard's eyes are on the ground, unsurprisingly.  His erection, straining from the black rope choking it, has me mesmerized.  A treasure, indeed.

"Shall I gag him?" Marcus asks, a large, black, penetrating penis gag in his hands, ready to be forced into Richard's mouth.  Desire swells inside me, tingling at my loins.  Slowly, with just my manicured nails, I lift the young man's head until he looks into my eyes.

Blue within blue, and crystal clear as glass.  My heart won't stop beating as I pause and gauge his measure.  "You don't need to be gagged, do you, my pet?" His eyes gaze down, releasing mine, before closing as the whistle of air is followed by the sharp snap of leather on skin.

"Answer her, asshole!" Marcus barked.

Enough, I think as my hand reaches out, signaling Marcus to stop.  Someday, soon, that one will try my patience one step too far. "He *has* answered me," I inform my assistant.  "Further 'instruction' from you is not required.  Leave us, and prepare for this evening."

Time for work.  With Marcus' departure, silence descends in my office.  Just the tapping of the keys on my keyboard, and Richard's quiet intake and release of breath.  I know his strenuous position causes him pain.  The sight makes me hot.  With regret, I turn back to my Internet correspondence.  Monday's always suck from the weekend e-mail.

Yes.  No.  Try my 900 number and select option 6.  No, I am not a 300 pound man.  I understand that crucifixion was a standard practice in bygone days, but as yet, such a request would be detrimental to my property.  Go flame someone who cares, Mr. Robertson.  On and on and on and on.

Tired of dealing with the mindless masses, I look over at my companion.  Sweating now, my treasure shines from a light glaze over skin as white as marble.  Those two mounds of pectoral muscles and tight, flat stomach, beckon to me.  I usually prefer my pets smooth and hairless, more like the statue in the atrium, but there's something about his hair-smattered body that I find appealing.

Does he know what he does to me, emotions far more intense than any other I've ever known?  How much my body thrills at possessing him?  Out of all the men in this complex, of innumerable shapes, sizes and colors, *his* is the one I watch in my bedroom at night.  Dream of when planning my private entertainment.

To own this man, body and soul.  To bind him to me forever.  To know as I follow this course only a few have chosen that he kneels beside me, chained to me, and I am not alone on this journey.  To find my soulmate, and in taking him prisoner, setting myself free.

Will he ever be able to understand?  Or will he plod along like cattle, pulled by force, testing against the leash of his slavery?  Can any *man* understand what I, and my mother before, need to make ourselves complete?  Do I have the words to tell my pet, my Richard?

He gasps at a sudden spasm in his back, arching his torso and drawing me from my musings.  Such a lovely, enticing chest he has developed.  I want to reach out, tease the hidden nipples to hardness, watch them peek out of their camouflage covering, but...too soon, too soon.  I shall only gaze and watch him, my treasure.  The slow, small movements as he tries to find comfort, to ease the mounting ache in his muscles, the silent shift in different directions, unending.  A symphony of motion and control.  I can wait for the moment.  My *paper* work deserves some attention.

Mother warned me there would be days like this.

* * *

 

It doesn't balance.  Angrily, I add up the two columns again, seeing a different number on the calculator than underneath my pencil.  This cannot fucking happen.  Not today.

I realize I stood too fast, sending my chair spinning back as I wipe the offending ledger from my desk.  Everything I see turns red -- is red.  Red ink on the tape, red pencil marks from Archie's corrections, red blood spilled on the carpet.

And there my strawberry blond whipping boy sits in bondage, ready to suffer to make me feel a single iota better.

My pointed toe lashes toward his groin rather brutally.  I almost laugh when he flinches.  Most worms would instinctively close their thighs, and then suffer the punishments.  Richard trembles, oh so sweetly, but leaves himself open to my rage.  Very good, my pet, I think to myself, pleased.  Maybe someday I might reward him openly.

Instead of bestowing crippling pain only a man could feel, my toe gently rubs up and down his bound, straining erection.  His body shakes again, jerking as intense sensations radiate from his engorged shaft. "I enjoy a hard man," I tell him.  "Makes me wet, knowing that you like what I'm going to do to you."

Richard's head shakes from side to side, barely even noticeable, but I'm looking for any sign he cares to give me.  His erection tell me one thing, his reluctance -- for that's all a "no" from him could be -- adds another piece.  And his terror....

I kick his stretched thighs with my toe in a fit of pique, getting hotter as he shifts to inch them apart even more.  Watching him, this muscled beauty performing for me, makes all thoughts of accountants and adding machine tape disappear from my head.  "Stretch, my pet.  Strain to please me."  I reach over, giving him a free showing at my breasts if he risks enough to look, and run my fingernails over the slick, taut flesh on either side of his groin.

His moan shatters the heavy silence in my office.  Of course my treasure can't be perfect, not this quickly.  And failing perfection always brings punishment.  Pain.  Is it my fault I set lofty goals for my possessions?

"Silence!" I order, most of the harshness faked.  Succumbing to the earlier desire, I zero in on his left nipple, crushing the sensitive nub between my fingernails as it tries to hide behind the layer of chest curls.  Only a loud intake of breath and more shudders betray Richard's agony.

The right tit quickly suffers the same fate from my other hand.  Challenged to hear this hunky pet beg -- for anything -- I lift his tortured nipples upward, letting his groan that accompanies his arching chest to bring me closer to the orgasm waiting within me.

I need him, my Richard, writhing and moaning and begging and submitting.  I need it now, right...now.  In my top right desk drawer rests a collection of my favorite nipple clamps.  Without thought, I take my most biting pair in my hand, fingers opening the clamps and letting them snap close.  When I turn back around, my pet has slumped over, vainly trying to protect his abused titflesh.  A flogging offense, normally, but soon my dear Richard would suffer something much, much worse than the whip.

My knee shoves his head back forcefully, exposing that sweaty chest, hair plastered to the curving muscles.  Revealing those two red points I ache to torture.  I let the two clamps snap over the pair of hard nubs, breathing hard myself as I watch the sharp teeth dig into tender flesh.  God, I'm going to come.

My pet screams, a loud and agonized wail.  I shudder from the delicious sensations it causes.  I want more.  I want to hurt him more.  Need to hurt him.  My fingers reach down and pull the connecting chain upward as my other hand grasps a leash from the ceiling.  The two meet and I snap them together, sweet Richard painfully arching his chest and raising his body up on his knees, jerking his balls tied to the floor.  No position could ease his painful situation.

I am sopping wet, juices coating my exploring finger.  I am *so* ready.  My pet's head thrown back makes a perfect seat for me.  Thighs trap his tortured face between them, forcing his nose and lips into the opening of my crotchless outfit.  His hot breath, panting in pain and desperation blows over sensitized flesh.  I shudder helplessly, forcing the poor dear's head further back.

To steady myself, I grab two large handfuls of curls, enjoying the silky feel of his hair in my fingers.  I pull his head upwards, forcing his face deeper into me, cutting off his air as he pleasures me.  His tongue, his nose, anything hard and pointed driving into me, hurling me higher in bliss.

"Oh, God," I shriek, my Richard adding his own choked scream as I grind my pussy over his trapped face.  So close, so damned close, give me more, Richard...more Richard.  His teeth somehow graze my clitoris, hard.  I can't help myself, I writhe in pleasure and pain, forcing his head further backwards.  His tongue...his...tongue...hot breath...teeth.  Curls, I yank his hair hard, so close.  Deeper, pet.  Deeper.  I need....  I need....  Oh!  God....

Knees shaking, my whole being shuddering in the most *intense* orgasm I can remember recently.  Once I can control myself again, I slide forward, hating to release that talented face, the absence of his hot breath.  But I am too drained for even toying with him.  I need...a shower.  Food.  A moment to collect myself.

The office door stands open and I have already stepped into the hall when I hear it, a soft noise from my pet.  Richard's body trembles helplessly, still tightly bound in that strained, painful position.  He's crying.  Something blossoms inside me as I see the crystal tears slid off his thrown back head and land on the plush carpet.

Everything hurts for my pet.  He performed flawlessly and he's still in agony.  I only want to temper his spirit not break him totally.  I quickly return to him, reaching up and releasing the chain connected to his nipple clamps.  Like a puppet with its string cut, my Richard slumps forward, curling in on himself, instinctively protecting his abused nubs, stretching his back in a new direction.

I should have him flogged for failing to maintain the proscribed position.  I still might.  But my frisky colt needs a small reward for such good behavior.  He shall have a moment to regroup, to collect himself.  I have things I can take care of.  Unfortunately, I'm already anxious for more.

* * *

 

Refreshed after a quick shower, I stop by the kitchen for some fruit.  We working girls need to keep our energy levels up.  By the time I make it back to my office, Richard preens in his bondage, again ramrod straight...and he's no longer curled over, either.

I "tsk" at the mess on the floor in front of him, the remains of my little temper tantrum with my desk.  Instead of burning the hateful thing, I gingerly lift the ledger book, turning toward my desk.  The rest can wait for housekeeping.

"Two of the numbers are transposed," my pets whispers, loud enough to hear but still respectful.  Resisting the urge to slap that pretty face for such intolerable behavior, I glare at the boy, challenging him to speak further without leave.

It must be an awful choice, to disobey a stern taskmistress and offer up knowledge unasked for but not unwelcome.  "You...."  He chokes off his sentence, resorting to a purging breath before starting again.  The movement must make those little tit biters ache even more.  "The bottom two numbers in the cash account are reversed," he points out.

So they are.

"You know bookkeeping?" I demand.  I drop the ledger on the desk, the sudden "thud" as final as a guillotine in action.

"Yes...Mistress."

An idea forms in my brain, the chance to kill a whole flock of birds with one rock-hard stone.  "You've used...." What was that program again?  "Quicken, before?"

A shudder passes through my pet, whether memory or present discomfort, I'll have to check on later.  "Yes, Mistress."

I can see the end of my worries.  Archie will get his computerized accounts, Marcus will shit a load of bricks and maybe pull his act together, and I can spend several afternoons a week watching my pet struggle with Quicken as I torment his helpless body.  This calls for a celebration.  I buzz the kitchens through the intercom.  "Tell the cook I want something special, served in my quarters.  Finger foods.  No waitstaff, I have just the man to take care of *all* my needs tonight."

After such a strenuous session, Richard should be more than ready for something a little tamer, less painful...but no less demanding.

* * *

 

"Ooohh, That's *good*," I manage to purr.  I can't help myself as Richard's talented hands carress my body.  He's done this sort of thing often.  "Tell me, my pet, where you learned  your secrets."  I open my eyes at his silence, seeing his guilty flush as he looks at my legs.  "Tell me, *pet.*"  Such a harsh tone from my mouth, augmented by a jerk of his cock leash.

He seems so...submissive there at my feet, all glistening from the oil I had him rub all over his body.  Richard performed for me, running his hands all over that deliciously muscled body, stroking himself, teasing his flesh. Oiling himself up for me.  And I eagerly watched each shudder and heard each gasp, the better to train him.

I always make notes of men's erogenous zones, what they do to give themselves pleasure.  That's important when you train them, especially the older ones.  When I thought he had reached his zenith, I quickly snapped a leather cock ring over that wondrous hard-on and added a short leash to it.  To keep an accident from spoiling my pleasure for the rest of the night.  Poor Richard, if he *could* last the night, he's a man worth keeping.

His shyness tastes sweet in an innocent sort of way.  From what the detectives can tell me about his teenage years, and the few hints he dropped now and again, I have an inkling of his education in the sensual arts.  "It was your friend...the long haired Scot.  *He* taught you."  The dangling tone of my voice spells out exactly *what* I imagine the two men had shared.

Richard blushes even brighter, unwilling to face my wrath by stammering his innocence.  That cinches it, while this MacLeod might be a sexual dynamo from what I've seen, and has certainly passed on a limited amount of knowledge to my pet, the two have never been intimate.  Not that a good foot rub isn't intimate.

"Did you enjoy touching him, my dear?"  I can't help myself.  I'm sadistic.  "Were his moans as loud as mine have been?  Did your fingers tingle as they stroked along his firm flesh?  Was he as gentle with you....?"  It was not my plan to reduce the poor boy to tears, but they fall, silently, as Richard continues to firmly rub my arch.  "Tell me," I order, wondering how hard I can push him.

"One time...I was hurt," he offers.  "Fell off my bike."  I nod as his eyes focus on the past and not his hands.  "He was...angry.  I did something stupid.  I'm always doing something stupid."

Careful not to disturb his vision, I shift my foot lower in his hands, letting the talented digits continue their work on my calf.  "You were hurt..." I prompt.

"Yeah," he agrees, his lips curving into a small, wondrous smile.

My heart jumps in my chest at that look.  God, I hope he can someday smile at me like that.  Even if I have to destroy that MacLeod limb by limb, I *will* have Richard's soul.

His hands dig deep into the muscle, right at that moment.  "Yeah," he repeats.  "Mac got down the first aid kit, and wanted to see the cuts.  I *tried* to lift my T-shirt off, but...."  His breath hiccups at the remembered pain.  "He got it off, eventually.  I felt sorta lost, just staring at nothing in particular.  He...His hands....  Well, he moved me this way and that, examining each bruise and cut.  Then he put this anti-bacterial stuff and, man, that stung.  I jerked away, cussing...."

I could imagine him, untrained, showing every hurt, every ache in his movements.  Small enough agonies to be dismissed, but still cumulating in what could amount to being a brutal training session.

"Mac was so...tender, stroking the gel into the cuts, testing the bruising, feeling the flesh.  He had to look at each of them, his nose so close.  I melted.  Never had anyone so...careful around me."

I just love it when macho he-men give in to their sensitive sides.  Moving my leg away, the discourse stops, my masseuse drawn back to the present.  I motion to my other leg, and Richard dutifully begins working that calf muscle.  "Continue...about a massage?"

My pet blushes at the hint.  "He's been teaching me some stuff...martial arts.  I wasn't the brightest student.  Ended up on the mat a lot, especially at first.  After this really nasty throw, I thought I had broken my back.  I just lay there, on the mat, rolling around in pain.  Mac starting digging into the muscles with his fists, working at the knots.  Finally, my back stopped screaming, but by then he was using the heels of his hands on my shoulders."

"You enjoyed it?" I ask, empathizing with the feelings as his hands loosen stressed muscles in my legs.

Richard switches legs again, moving further upwards.  "Oh, man, when Mac goes all out....  I think I fell asleep when he started lightly brushing my back, working his way up to my neck and skull.  He did things with his thumbs on my forehead...."

I will *have* to get Richard to demonstrate....later.

"I was a puddle, pudding, whatever you call it.  After a while, he woke me up and sent me to the showers.  It got to be a semi-regular event.  Anyway...."  My pet's voice softens to a whisper.  "Yes, I enjoyed it.  He treated me...nice."

My legs part of their own accord, his hands inching closer to my dripping pussy.  Richard knows enough to guess what to do -- continue until I tell him otherwise.  "Did you ever...return the favor?"  I watch my treasure shiver as my voice unconsciously drops.

His eyes fall again, focusing on his task and not whatever he looked at in the past.  "Yes..."  The word sounds strained, ripped from his soul.  The silence hangs oppressively, but I wait for him to continue.  "I surprised him one night when I asked if I could help ease *his* tension.  He seemed reluctant, but nodded and pointed to the weight bench."

I can picture what my pet imagined, that muscular, olive body laid out like a banquet.  How Richard must have salivated at the sight.  There are certain things that even "straight" boys can appreciate.

"His body was so...so warm.  And smooth.  So...big.  He had some oil, and I spread it all over his back...."

"Sounds like a stroke-off, not a massage," I inject.  Horny and panting, I raise my other leg for Richard's attention.

He looked so precious when he turns red.  "It...it probably was," my pet admits.  "I didn't know what to do.  He just let me spread oil all over him, that first time."  He laughs, a deep, throaty sound.  "I made a mess.  But Mac was patient, and kept telling me what to do."

His tiring hands do not qualify as inexperienced.  "You've certainly learned his lessons well."

"After that, it seemed like someone got a massage after each of our workouts...for awhile.  I remember one day, doing a number on his shoulder.  We had progressed to his bed at this point, and I was sitting on his butt...."

Ah, now it gets interesting.  "Were you hard?"

When Richard hesitates, I jerk his leash, reminding him who's boss.  "...Yessss..." he hissed.

"Did you want to fuck him?"

God, I love being blunt.  My treasure turns red down to his pectorals.  "Yes."  A whisper.

"What did you do next?"  I just have to ask.

The dear moves between my legs, rubbing each thigh, stroking along my hips.  "I asked him to turn over."

I spread for my pet, jerking him closer with his cock leash.  My poor, trapped pet.  "And then...."  God, this story turns me on.

Richard looks like he could cry at any moment.  "I...chickened out."

Such a frightened animal, sweet Richard, even after all this time.  He needs working on.  But gently, gently.  Now to exercise his imagination.  "Did you want him?"

"Yes."  A short, clipped, *husky* reply.

"Did it turn you on, having him trapped beneath you?  Naked, helpless?"

He moans, his fingers slowing in their strokes.  "God, yes."  My hand covers his, urging his fingers down to my sopping pussy.

"Can you picture him below you, arms trapped by his side, his body glistening from the oil and sweat?"

My pet shivers, skin breaking out into goose bumps.  "Oh, man.  Hair all over the pillow, gazing up at me...waiting...."  His breathing deepens as his fingers reach my opening, gently prying me open and inserting one digit.  "Nipples hard as a rock, those awesome pecs."

Yes, this boy leans quite a bit from straight.  "Do you want to pinch them, pet?  Grip them hard?  Make him beg?"  I shift forward, opening my legs more, reaching up to grab his hard nubs as our words paint a mental picture.  "Those full, luscious lips.  Do you want to feel those wrapped around your hard cock?  That mouth, swallowing you to the hilt?  See him licking those wonderful lips, begging for it?  Tell me, stud."

"Oh, yeah," Richard agrees, arching into my hands.  "Watch him writhe under me, sticking those tits in the air, gasping for breath.  Gotcha now, Mac.  Fall on your back every time a friend shows up, well, it's my turn Mac.  Be a slut for *me*."

"Fuck him, Richard.  Give him what he wants."  Another finger joins the first, opening me.  His thumb brushes across my clit, stroking it roughly.  I moan and lay back, releasing his tempting nubins, no longer concerned with fueling his fire.  My pet's libido rages too brightly to fail.

"I can feel his hard cock trapped in his sweats, poking my ass.  Too bad, Mac, this is *my* ride."  Head thrown back, eyes closed, my treasure looks like an erotic carving of marble...except for the growing red flush to his glistening skin.  "He's begging me, pleading for me to stop torturing his tits.  I laugh....  God, it's so good to laugh.  To torture *him* for once...."

A third finger joins the pair, his other hand taking over the duties of fingering me.  My hands clutch helplessly at the sheets, anything to fight against this growing fire threatening to explode in me.

"It's so easy to slide up his chest, watching his gasp as I pinch his nipples one last time...keep him primed.  See his face, trapped between my thighs, eyes forced to look at my crotch.  Man, I'm hard.  Rock fucking hard.  Look at it Mac.  Look at *me,* Mac."

I barely notice Richard's commentary as I'm writhing on the bed, totally flooded with sensations from my pussy.

"Suck it, MacLeod.  Come on, open that mouth up....  Please, Mac.  Oh, God!"

Richard's sobs as he pushes his fingers deep into me fling me over the edge.  I no longer care that he's stopped stroking my clit.  My hips buck, fucking myself on his hand as a wildfire of an orgasm rips through me.  I unintentionally jerk the cock leash, adding cries of pain to his teary sniffling.  "OH!  YES!" I scream, waves of sensation wracking my body.  Those fingers, hard as any cock, deep inside me.

I must have passed out.  Shit, I haven't done that in forever.  My body rests sprawled on the bed, Richard still between my legs, whimpering softly, lost in his own private torment.  Everything aches in a pleasant way.  I feel sated.  Messy, but sated.  A quick, hard jerk on my pet's leash brings his attention back to me.  Good.

"Clean the mess up," I command, leaning back against the pillows.  With hooded eyes, I watch Richard look around the bedroom for a handy towel or rag.  Anything but expensive satin sheets.  I leave none out when I have a slave present.  "With your *tongue,*" I impatiently explain.  He looks shocked, poor dear, and hesitantly brings his sopping fingers to his lips.  Watching his tongue lap at my juices draws a moan from my lips.

But he can't stop there.  He gazes at my pussy before leaning forward, using himself to clean me instead of wasting good cloth.  My thighs close, sealing him in, until I come again, hard.  Writhing as Richard laps at me, tonguing my inner most reaches.  A working girl could get use to this kind of treatment.

* * *

 

"Ahhhhhh........"

I couldn't help it.  The warm water of the bath, mixed with scented oils, made me relax even further.  Richard's gentle hands lifted me then gently deposited me in the large tub in my bath.  My pet had also lit every candle available while running the water, turning the large room into a starry spectacle.

I flicked my finger toward the soap, tingling as his firm, gentle hands picked up the bottle and luffa.  Once a healthy lather coated his fingers and the sponge, he starts again on my feet and legs.  Smoothly, he ran the frothy bubbles over and between my toes, giving each his full attention before moving on.

With a measure of satisfaction, I lean back on the bath pillow, reaching out for the glass of chilled juice next to me.  After the kitchens had sent my repast, Richard had laid it out.  *And* spent most him time feeding me, only stopping for a bite himself when I offered it his lips.  And though reaching orgasm three times already, just watching my treasure lick and nibble got my engines fired up once more.  I swear, he's either a natural born tease or one hell of a quick learner.

It took a rather rigid iron bar brushing my forearm to bring me out of my relaxed daze.  The dear had moved up to my chest, worshiping my torso with his fingers and soap.  The cock ring kept him hard and leaking, a painful state for even an experienced servant.  So I was going to let that stop me?

"Tell me more about your dark-haired friend, my pet," I ask, my hand trailing through the bubbles and water in lazy circles.

Richard squeezed my breast when he flinched, then immediately jerked away, dripping water on the tile.  "I'm sorry," he pleads, eyes on the floor, expectantly waiting for punishment.

Normally, my retribution would be quick and fierce, but I loathe to break the mood of the moment.  "Later, my dear," I purr, reaching out and pulling his hand back to the tub.  "I'm sure I can think of something really nasty for your lapse, but right now, you were going to tell me about your friend."

His hands resume their work, their shaking adding to the sensations.  "Uh, Mac.  He's a good guy."

"Good looking," I point out, smirking as he blushes.  "Don't you think?"

Richard looks anywhere but at me.  "Um....well," he offers.  "A lot of people think so."

I thrill at his qualification.  "Don't *you* think so?"  Why should I let him off the hook with him dangling so precariously?

To help him along, I reach over and firmly grasp his bound penis, a gasp timed to each squeeze.  "Ye...ye...yes!" he finally manages to spit out.

My pet's buttons are just too easy to push.  "Do you love him?"

His hesitation earns a jerk downward on his appendage, a lever of flesh in my firm control.  "God!" he screeched.  "Yes!  Yes I do!"  His voice rose as I continued the pressure.

"Then you should tell me so, darling, and not keep secrets.  I want you to tell me everything you've ever fantasized about him, what you're doing, what his reactions are...but not tonight."  Oh, no I have much more interesting ideas for tonight.  "The rest of the night exists for only me...and you."

His hands shake.  "Yes, Mistress."  Richard's voice hisses, tighter than normal.

I laugh.  "You're so hard you hurt."  Just a jerk of my hand and he writhes against the tub, enough stimulation to get even the most impotent man off, but the cock ring stifles any thought of orgasm.  "I love it when you hurt," I point out, in case he hasn't noticed yet.  "Pinch your nipples, keep them hard for me," I whisper.

Red points, hard from need, bulge between his fingers.  His labored breathing becomes even shorter.  A difficult assignment with soap slicked digits.

"Are you ready for me, Richard?" I ask, lightly circling his plump cockhead with my thumb.  Men are such sluts when they let loose.

"Please...Mistress."

"Are you ready to give yourself to me?"

His throbbing shaft answers before his words stumble out of his mouth.  "Yes, Mistress.  Take me....please!"

His whines flitter around the tiled room, musical notes of need and pain.

"Are you mine, slave?  Mine to do with as I will?"  Taunting slutty studs tastes *so* delicious.

"Yours...."  His moan overrides any other coherent entreaties.  Caught between heaven and hell, trapped there by a simple strip of leather and an overwhelming libido.

Men are so easy to dominate...to tame.  Ruled by their dicks and hormones.  That's why I like them like this.  They'll do anything for a few precious squirts of pleasure.  Torture themselves, abase themselves, offer up themselves for a moment's gratification.  Then I have them trapped again in the next breath, another round of begging, pleading, debasement for another fleeting orgasm.

And Richard seems to be the horniest one of them all.

* * *

 

God, he feels delicious.  Hard as a rock, his cock shaft ripping up inside of me.  Swollen from hours of abuse.  Better than any dildo I posses.  Hot and warm and *throbbing* with need.  No plastic, no *novelty* could ever compare.  Hell, he's better than anyone I can remember...damn, why am I thinking instead of fucking?

My nipples crinkle as I rub them over his hairy chest, the course curls teasing me onward.  Such a wonderful feeling, living sandpaper for my nubs and his hot, stiff cock.  I moan as I arch downward, driving myself further into his stretched pectorals, torturing myself on his helpless body, his bound manhood.

Richard moans as well, his nipples rough points for my erect nubs.  Too bad if he wants to help.  Or hold me.  Or stop me.  He finally understands the position he's in, my pleasure slave, provider of my satisfaction.  He shall suffer cruel torments under my unquenchable thirst for domination.

My mouth reaches down to his, hungry for a kiss, to taste my desire, my pleasure.  No air, our mouths trapped together, sends me over the edge.  I plant myself firmly on his unflagging erection and shudder.  My chest heaves, scrapping sensitized flesh across his torso and adding more points of fire to my orgasm.  I clench his shaft hard, contracting around his manhood and squeezing the life from it.

He writhes in his bondage, limbs stretched wide to the bedposts, denied his own relief by my stifling cockring.  Trembling from desire, body strung tight as a bow, Richard shudders as I collapse on top of him, blanketing his hot, sweaty body.  "How does it feel," I cruelly ask as we both soak up the afterglow.  My sensitive mons quivers with his so very hard penis still inside me.

My mouth nibbles his ear, little nips on spongy flesh.  Such a feast of taste, a banquet laid out below me.  I reach over for the wineglass and take a luxurious sip, mixing his tart sweat with a mouthful of lukewarm red wine.  Bareback riding always gives me a thirst.  Another gulp finishes the glass.  It feels so good, grinding my hips against his as I lean back for that last drop, driving him deep into my hot, wet cunt.

A moan comes from my human dildo as I lean to the side to set the empty glass down again.  Such a reaction drives me to shift back and forth, working his cock like a video game joystick in the hands of an excited teenager.  His eyes open wide, insane with passion.  Pleading for mercy.  I watch him for a good long time, swaying back and forth, relishing the helplessness he feels.  The power I have over him.  My mother taught me to savor this feeling.  This ambrosia that has made me a god.

I lean over, running my tongue over his chapped lips, letting him taste a hint of my favorite wine.  My mouth teases his until he lifts his head, begging for more.  I jerk away, laughing, enjoying his quick breaths as he strains upward, hungry for my kiss.

His bondage only allows him to move so far, until he reaches his limits and whimpers.  I nip at him, licking and plundering his mouth, dancing away quickly while grinding away with my pelvis.  He groans, straining forward until his arched body brushes my hanging tits.

"More, Richard," I whisper as I lift up slowly, feeling each blood engorged inch slide out my tunnel.  I can feel the head, resting just inside of me, only a small touch connecting us.  There I hover, teasing him with my mouth, brushing his taunt chest with my breasts, our sex barely touching.  Such a bitter-sweet moment, caught between heaven and hell.

My pet strains, back impossibly arched, whimpering, desperate for more, for anything I will give him.  His body shakes, limbs jerking at the leather restraints binding him spread-eagle to my bed.  Muscles tremble, tiny shakes that turn Richard into living vibrator, stimulating all my nerve endings with pleasure.  The moment crystallizes, seconds stretching into minutes, time frozen as each spasm translates to my body, as if our nerve endings had fused together.

Perfection, fleeting as firefly, ends too soon.  His body finally falls back to the mattress, exhausted from his efforts to satisfy me.  I miss the hardness and helplessness that fed me, dropping on top of my stretched slave and curling around his slick, sweaty form.  Richard's breathless wheeze tickles my ear.  Such a strong pet, blessed with stamina and firmness.  I know he can feel my smile on his taut neck.  His reward for his endurance.

What a tasty neck, tangy and cold as I bathe that small bit of flesh.  So desperate for release, he writhes under the caresses, gasping helplessly.  All his limbs, strained from his fight and pulled in opposite directions, give on last fight for freedom.  Silly boy, that's one thing he shall never experience again.

Moving onward, drinking in the small tremors and hoarse protests, I slide my tongue over his jaw, moving down his throat to lap at the nectar pooled at the cleft at the bottom.  My hands roam his muscled chest, trailing the way for my nipping teeth and lavishing tongue.  Glistening sweat, mixed with fear and torment taste sweeter than any wine in my cellar.  I lathe each nipple till they peak, tender and chewy from hours of torture.  I have him begging, finally.

"Please....God, let me go....please!  Let me come...please!....I'll do anything....please let me come...."

I smile.  Even defeated, my pet struggles onward.  Unwilling to accept his place in my world.

My fingers run along his stomach, tracing each chiseled abdominal as I bite his red nubs.  I leave those screaming points and travel downward, teasing with my mouth, tracing each muscle group, pressing him to the bed.  His belly button waits, beckoning my attentions.  One flick, and my pet screams in frustration, arching hard with all the energy he has left.  But it's not enough, not nearly enough to throw me off or change my mind.

One last swipe, following along his barely noticeable tan line, and I am ready for my next humiliation.

"Damn it!  I can't take any more...please..."  His tears flow freely as his weak, pathetic pleading reaches me.  I chuckle against that sweet flesh between his navel and genitals.  I'm just starting again, sweet Richard.  You're not finished for the night just yet.

I rake my fingernails over his taut inner thighs, please with the red trails that appear on his pale flesh.  A drop of clear fluid wells up at the crown of his leaking cock.  My tongue darts out, capturing that treasure, sliding across the puffy crown.  Richard moans.  My hands finger his balls, caressing the little acorns and batting them together in their sac.  His breath freezes in his throat.  I slowly squeeze, pulling them away from his shaking body.  A constricted moan erupts from his arched throat.  I squeeze hard, jerking them down, crushing his manhood in the ultimate show of ownership.  He screams, arching his tormented body off the bed.  The posts he's tied to creak in protest, but they and the leather bonds hold, winning the short battle of wills.  Stretching the agony as far as I dare, I slowly release my grasp until he is once again limp on the bed, gasping for air.

I think he's learned his lesson.  Now for his "reward."

With one last caress of his sensitive thighs, I hook the unforgiving cockring that still prevents him from ejaculating, pulling his red, puffy manhood closer to me.  He looks down his exhausted, sweaty body and begs through parched lips.  "No more, please...no more."

With a flick of my head, I toss the hair out of my face and ever so gently, wrap my eager lips around his leaking, straining cockhead.  I'll bet he never suspected a slow, sweet blowjob could ever be as exquisitely painful as this one will be.

* * *

 

I lay in bed, cradling his tired, worn body in my arms.  He sleeps the sleep of the dead, totally exhausted.  Such a young one, a young *man*, to nod off after sex....  I cannot rest, my mind traveling in too many directions.  My mother's tiny voice in my head urges me to take Richard to Hong Kong with me tomorrow, to hell with what the Chinese board will think.  But I have enough trouble confronting them as a woman in a man's world, let alone having conquered one of their own and parading him like a woman.  No, that would not get me the votes I need.

So I will leave him behind, a newly discovered treasure alone to the machinations of this world I have created.  It pains me to do so, to leave him under the care of Marcus.  But my sweet pet will be here when I return.  In pristine condition or I shall have Marcus' balls in my hands.

Future plans decided, I grip my Richard tighter, binding him to me more deeply than the chains, the ropes, the semen glue us.  I shall be a part of him, and he an extension of me.  Or he'll die trying.  He's worth too much to not see this to completion.  My ultimate triumph, or ultimate failure, for I do not think I can survive without my treasure.  My newly found treasure.

He looks so like an angel when he sleeps.

God, I love Mondays.... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and this is where the smut died. I had planned this as an open ended series, dipping back into it when the inspiration struck (mindless porn is _hard!_ okay, stop laughing, I mean it) and then finally wrapping things up with a rescue, Duncan and Methos, a little therapy, etc.
> 
> It's been ...way too long, and no more inspiredness. Safe to say, I think this will never be completed.


End file.
